Reign
by The Manic Magician
Summary: Underfell AU. Papyrus seizes the crown for himself, and declares Sans his queen. A series of one-shots covering the highs and lows of their reign, and everything in between.
1. Rebellion

No expense is spared on the five course meal laid out for the king and his queen. Bread as light and fluffy as a cloud, soup with the perfect amount of seasoning. Thick cuts of beef from freshly slaughtered bovine, vegetables plucked and peeled from the garden that very morning.

Papyrus' detractors claim he's ushering in a new era of decadence and despotism, but in Sans' (slightly biased) opinion, they couldn't be further from the truth. Asgore had dragged the kingdom down into ruin after his son was killed and his queen went mad. Papyrus has spent his first year as king fixing Asgore's mistakes, restoring the kingdom to its former glory. His stringent rules and policies could be unpopular, but the king does not need to be adored by the populace, only obeyed.

To Sans' dismay, corralling the Underground back into some semblance of order has left Papyrus with little time to spend with _him_. Papyrus spends the days training up the new captain of the guard, brokering tax agreements with merchants, going over new infrastructure with engineers and construction workers. Sans splits his days serving as judge for high-profile cases, and dealing with the petty complaints of the common folk. By the time they've finished their daily duties, both are exhausted. Sans often passes out the second he hits the mattress, and Papyrus is rarely far behind.

But not today. Today, Papyrus called an end to his meetings at the stroke of four, and Sans pushed back the next trial on his list to the following day. This evening is about _them._

Sans would have been content to spend the night in bed, alternating between fucking and lounging around. But Papyrus intended to really make the most of it, ordering the cooking staff to prepare an especially ornate meal for the evening.

Sans salivates at the obscene amount of food laid out before them, and discretely wipes off drool on his cloth napkin.

Papyrus sits at the head of the table, Sans at his right. At the king's legs sits his massive hellhound, a dish of raw venison left out for it by the servants. It watches with its sharp red eyes for Papyrus to begin eating before it wolfs down its meal. Sans takes this as his cue to eat as well, carefully cutting his food into bite-sized portions. A few months of manners training has wrung most of the sloppiness out of him. When in public, at least.

"How's the new captain?" Sans asks, between mouthfuls of filet mignon. Guards are posted by both sets of doors into the room, but Sans can speak freely; the guards won't dare report back to their captain about the words of their king and queen.

Papyrus stabs a bit of his steak moodily.

"That bad, huh?"

"They're a placeholder, and everyone knows it." Papyrus says. "There's another monster, that goes by the name MK, who joined the ranks not too long ago."

"He's better than your captain?" Sans spoons more food onto his plate.

"Not yet, but soon will be. Still, it's better for MK to climb the ranks with his own prowess than me simply appointing him."

"Good call." Sans shovels a cheesy pasta into his mouth, enjoying how it settles warmly in his magic.

"Still, they won't respect a captain that can't hold his own in a real fight."

"We'll figure something out." Sans promises. Papyrus huffs in agreement.

The hellhound licks its chops, plate empty. A servant girl glides over, silent as a mouse, to refresh the dish.

Sudden shouts and concussive booms of magic from the hall have Sans and Papyrus rising from their chairs. The hellhound growls, muzzle still matted with blood from its meal.

"Get behind me," Papyrus orders, in a tone that brooks no argument.

Sans darts into his shadow just as monsters crash into the room, overwhelming the guards posted at the door. A pack of forty monsters, by Sans' count, and fairly organized. They'd have to be to launch a direct attack on the royal palace itself.

The remaining guards fall into formation. They're vastly outnumbered, but that hardly matters. This is what they've trained for. Papyrus sends out a wave of glimmering bone attacks. The rebels, wedged in a cluster by the door, go down in droves.

The remaining rebels climb over the bodies of the dying, bellowing war cries as they fan out into the room.

Papyrus pushes Sans back from the fight, towards the kitchens. The cooks and waitstaff begin to form a protective circle around the queen.

"Boss, I can—"

"I won't have you taken from me by some stray attack."

Papyrus whistles sharply, and his dog-beast bounds over to stay by Sans as its master dives into the fray.

Sans watches impotently through the curtain of shoulders as Papyrus and the guards effectively begin their counterattack.

Papyrus' years of training show as he takes down his enemies with precise aim and minimal magic, driving bone constructs through his enemies' chests and necks.

One lone monster manages to slip through Papyrus and the guards, but Sans doesn't get the chance to so much as summon his magic before the hellhound reacts, tackling the monster to the floor, ripping open his jugular.

Monsters scramble on top of the dining room table, kicking dishes away with their feet, hoping to flank the king. Three guards grip the wooden lip of the table and overturn it, sending the rebels crashing to the ground with the rest of the meal. Several rebels stagger upright, but stumble on the slippery footing and are swiftly dusted by the guards.

The sheer number of monsters present makes the battle confusing and chaotic, and Sans doesn't realize what happened until he's too late to stop it.

He hears Papyrus scream, loud and agonized in a way Sans hasn't heard for years—and then nothing. Sans shoves through his ring of protectors to see Papyrus crumpled on the floor, a triumphant monster standing over him with some kind of electrical baton.

Sans races for his brother as the hound bolts for the one who injured him, leaping upon the monster and tearing chunks of flesh and muscle from his legs.

Sans drops to Papyrus' side, cradling his head in his lap.

"Boss, Pap, c'mon, don't do this to me—"

Another monster charges for the royal couple, looking to get a cheap shot in. Sans hurls out a bone attack at them to knock their feet out from under them; a disheveled guard finishes the job, impaling the monster through the chest with her lance.

"Protect your king and queen!" She roars, and the soldiers rally in a tight circle around Papyrus and Sans.

Papyrus doesn't show any sign of dusting, but he won't awaken, either. Sans rips open Papyrus' shirt, buttons scattering across the floor. There's a faint discoloration, like a burn mark, on his sternum where he was struck. Sans traces the edges of the mark contemplatively. Papyrus' HP has been chipped down from some lucky shots in the fight, but he's nowhere near low enough to be rendered unconscious like this. What the hell is going on?

The buzz of magic in the room fades, and Sans glances up. The guards have killed every rebel in the room, save for the one who got the hit in on Papyrus. The hound sits atop him, teeth warningly at the monster's throat.

"Hook him in the torture chamber for questioning." Sans orders.

The dog backs off as a guard grabs the rebel roughly by the arm. The rebel screams, unable to support himself on his half-flayed legs. The guard drags his shuddering body from the room, his blood smearing across the ground to mix with the dust of his comrades.

"You." Sans points to one of the guards at random. "Get that staff to the science department."

The guard gives a brief bow. He gingerly picks up the baton by the handle, unwilling to somehow activate it by accident.

"And will someone get a goddamn healer in here already?"

The guard who had rallied the others removes her helmet; a cat monster. She cards a clawed hand through her mussed lilac fur.

"I've already sent for one, my queen," She reports. "I also ask that you remain here until we are sure there are no others lurking about in the castle."

"Sure, whatever. Just get that healer."

The hellhound pads over, curling beside Papyrus. It noses Papyrus' hand, and, when he remains lax and unresponsive, keens softly. Sans runs a hand along its fur, soothing the both of them.

After several tense minutes, the healer—a froggit—arrives. Slimy perspiration is gathered on her skin from the hurry over. She hops to Papyrus' side and begins a scan, green magic flaring up and cradling his flickering soul.

"His HP is reading steady—"

"I already know that!" Sans snaps. "What's wrong with him?"

The froggit frowns, continuing her scan under Sans' severe gaze. After a moment more, the healing aura around her dissipates, Papyrus' soul returning inside his chest cavity.

"His MP has been totally depleted." She explains grimly. "The meager amount he has left is just barely keeping his body in one piece."

Sans has magic to spare. "I can give him some of mine—"

"No." She sighs. "No, my queen. He is now like a newborn. He has to craft the foundation of his magic again on his own. The addition of foreign magic now might wake him up sooner, but would be detrimental in the long run."

"So what the hell am I supposed to do? Sit on my hands and wait?"

"As soon as he wakes up, get some food and drink into him to help him build his magic reserves back up. But until then…yes. I'm afraid all you can do is wait for him to recover."

Sans struggles to speak through the lump in his throat.

"How long will it take?"

"I've never seen a case where the MP was depleted to this extent." The healer admits. "Look at this."

She points to his elbow joint, which, upon closer inspection, is quivering slightly.

"Tugging on his limbs too hard might very well disconnect the bones. You must be very careful with him until he stabilizes. I would predict three days, at minimum, for him to recover."

Three days? Sans clasps Papyrus' limp hand in his own. Not an hour ago, Papyrus had been fine. And now—and now—

"That'll be all." Sans dismisses her, dully.

She opens her mouth, as if about to say some comforting platitudes, but thinks better of it. Her mouth shuts again. She bows to the queen, and hops from the room.

Once she's gone, the feline guard crouches down by Sans' side.

"My queen. I ask you allow me to carry the king myself once it has been deemed safe."

"He's heavier than he might look." Sans says. His thumb traces idle circles in Papyrus' hand. "It'd be your head if you dropped him."

"I can deadlift my own body weight." She declares. "I'm confidant I can manage it."

Sans supposes he should be impressed, but finds it difficult to muster any enthusiasm considering the circumstances.

"You got a name?"

"Catty," She practically purrs. If the queen bothers to learn your name, you have a much better chance than most of advancement.

"What creative parents you had."

She can't tell if Sans is being sarcastic or not, so she simply nods.

A guard reenters the room, and heads right for Sans.

"There were a few rebels lingering in the halls, which we apprehended. The bedroom was checked thoroughly and deemed safe."

"Let's go." Sans tells Catty. Papyrus is too exposed, too vulnerable out in the open like this.

Catty straps her lance to her back, freeing both arms up. Gently, she hooks an arm under Papyrus' legs, the other under his shoulders. Holding him secure and close to her chest, Catty strides from the room, Sans and the hound following closely behind. Servants and guards alike gawk as they pass by. The king never seemed to tire or grow ill, but now here he was, not dusted, but defeated. Sans glares at anyone who stares too long, and they duck their heads instantly, abashed.

Sans is immeasurably relieved when they arrive at the double doors to the royal couple's bedchamber. He pushes the door open, presenting a room of red cloth and gold trim, furniture carved from dark cherry wood. Candles gutter on Papyrus' work desk and on the windowsill, bathing the room in light. The centerpiece is the large canopy bed, replete with plush pillows and thick comforters. Catty lays the king down reverently on the bed, then turns to Sans.

"My queen, I will see to it myself that there are two guards stationed right outside the door at all times."

Sans nods and waves her off. Catty bows deeply, and departs from the room, shutting the door softly behind her. Sans walks over and locks it when she's gone, as flimsy a defense it may be. The hell-beast jumps up onto the bed, settling into its customary position at Papyrus' feet.

Sans fetches a pair of pajamas from the closet for Papyrus, a crimson silk. He changes Papyrus out of his formal wear, easing off his boots and clothes, tossing them haphazardly on the floor. He helps Papyrus into the bedclothes, like a child would a doll. It's unnerving, to say the least.

Papyrus' bones have grown so cold. Sans recalls sneaking into a private section of their father's lab as a child, discovering one of the human's corpses on a slab. They were like ice to the touch, as Papyrus is now.

Sans layers blankets atop Papyrus. It probably won't have any effect, but what the hell. It can't hurt.

Sans strips down to his boxers and then slips under the first layer of sheets, next to Papyrus. Sans stares at him, hating how still and lifeless he's become. Only the most minute rise and fall of his chest indicates he's still in there.

Sans reaches over, tracing the curve of his lover's mandible.

"I'm supposed to be the lazy good for nothin', not you," Sans scolds him weakly. "So you better wake up soon, okay?"

With a flick of his magic he extinguishes the candles in the room, engulfing it in darkness. Slowly, he drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Sans is awoken by knocks on the door.

Bleary-eyed, he pushes himself upright on the bed. He glances over at Papyrus, who doesn't appear to have moved an inch since the previous night.

When the knock at the door comes again, he scowls, throwing off the sheets from his lap and getting up. Sunlight glimmers warmly through the windows; a glance at the clock tells Sans it's nearly three in the afternoon. Fuck, he had cases scheduled for this morning. Papyrus usually woke him up quite early, and Sans didn't think to set an alarm clock.

Sans shrugs on a shirt and unbolts the door and opens it just as the maid on the other side is about to knock again. She lowers her hand, which was poised to knock. Balanced carefully in her other hand is a tray of what Sans assumes is breakfast, covered in a silver cloche.

"My queen. When you did not come down for breakfast we grew concerned."

"Uh, thanks."

Sans takes the tray from her. As the scullery maid departs, he looks to the guards posted at the door.

"Any update on the device yet?"

"Negative, my queen."

"And, uh…the case I was supposed to handle this morning?"

"Aside from the guards and staff, no one has been allowed inside the castle walls since the attack."

There's a lot of food on this tray, and it's staring to feel rather heavy. Sans backs into the bedroom again.

"Notify me as soon as the scientists have something."

"Certainly."

Sans shuts the door to the outside world.

He sets the tray on the bedside table, and removes the cloche. An elaborate breakfast of fruits, nuts, toast, and poached eggs is arranged on the tray. Tucked into the corner of the tray is a selection of condiments, including his favorite. Sans grabs a piece of toast and dumps an obscene amount of the yellow condiment on top of it. He gnaws on the toast, crumbs scattering everywhere, some mustard dripping onto the floor. Does mustard stain carpet fabric? He wouldn't know. Papyrus was the one who cleaned back in Snowdin, the one who did _everything_ —

Sans sets the half-eaten slice of toast down, appetite gone.

He wavers between action. Most of him wants to stay here, to watch over Papyrus in case he awakens. But there's a pit of anger within him at the thought of the monster who hurt his brother, still alive in a dungeon cell. With the injuries the hound inflicted on him, Sans knows he will not survive long. But death from infection is not enough; Sans needs _blood_ , needs dust that'll linger in the chips and nicks of his phalanges.

Sans dresses quickly, in his old outfit that he hasn't worn since the Snowdin days. The ratty black jacket is a comforting, familiar weight on his shoulders. He keeps the new collar on, though. When Papyrus became king, one of the first things he did was raid the royal coffer for its finest rubies. He had them sewn onto a new leather collar, to let all know that Sans held power and was _his_. San trails a hand across the collar fondly. He's hardly ever removed it since.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he looks over to the hellhound.

"Watch over him for me," Sans orders. The dog gives an affirmative growl, eyes pinned on its master.

With one last glance at Papyrus, he slips into one of the rents in reality and steps into the dungeons. There are rows and rows of cells, fitted with magic-repellent bars. These cells have housed countless criminals of the crown, but are all empty now. Asgore, soft-hearted fool that he could be, kept the dungeons teeming with the scum of the Underground. He said he kept them alive to serve as the first fodder in the human-monster war once the barrier shattered. Monsters muttered amongst themselves that Asgore hoarded them up to limit the LOVE other monsters could gain. Personally, Sans just thinks he was too much of a coward to execute them himself.

When Papyrus came to power, he had every last one of them killed by his hound, effectively getting rid of Asgore's loose ends and powering up one of his most loyal allies in one fell swoop. Nowadays, if someone commits a crime bad enough that they deserve to be in the dungeons, they're usually executed in the town square instead.

Shrieks of agony echo throughout the dungeon. Sans follows the screams to the royal torture chamber. The room fits its title; nearly every torture device imaginable is neatly hung on the wall or piled in chests.

The Inquisitor, a brutish boar monster, has the rebel tied down on a rack, pulling the rebel's limbs from their sockets. The Inquisitor eases off the lever of the device as he spots Sans.

"My queen." He speaks loudly to be heard over the rebel's gasps for breath. "What a surprise to see you down here."

"Has he said anything yet?"

"The bastard's stubborn, 'e is. I got nothin' out of him but creative insults about my mother."

"Let me have a crack out of him."

The Inquisitor looks slightly put-out at being robbed of his fun, but does back away to let Sans have his turn.

The rebel lifts his head slightly off the rack, glaring at Sans with as much heat as he can muster. Sans summons a bone to his hand, one tip sharpened down to a vicious point.

"You think this will change anything?"

"I think I'll feel a lot better once I've dusted all your little friends."

"Rot in hell—"

The rebel lets out a hoarse scream as Sans shoves the bone construct into the exposed wound on his leg. Sans twists the bone, really digging it in there. Fresh blood wells up and spills over earlier stains.

"You bitch!" The rebel howls, limbs straining uselessly in the straps.

"Gee, I've never heard that one before." Sans drives the bone harder into his leg, churning around muscle and dislodging bone.

"You're doing yourself no favors by keeping your mouth shut." Sans says. "I can do this all day."

Sans summons a second bone, shoving it in the monster's other leg just as he's about to speak. Only when he grows bored of the constant screaming does Sans remove both magic constructs.

The rebel's body wracks with tremors, cold sweat coating his skin.

"Well?"

The rebel begins to laugh, an unsteady, raspy thing. Sans has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. As far as torture goes, what Sans has done so far has been fairly tame, nowhere near close enough to shatter the monster's mind.

"He'll never be what he was. Do you know _that_?"

Sans' gaze snaps to the rebel, alarmed. The monster leers at him through bloodstained teeth.

"His magic is gone. Your king might as well be dead."

Sans sees red, and his magic flares instinctively, waves of jagged bones ripping apart the monster until he dusts. The dust spills down through the slats of the rack, trickling onto the floor.

"Clean up this mess," Sans spits, and steps through the rift again, back into the royal bedchambers.

Papyrus is exactly as he left him.

Sans bends over by Papyrus' side, gently clinking their skulls together. That asshole had just been trying to frighten him. Papyrus will be fine. Sans has to believe that.

* * *

A week passes, a hush falling across the castle. It's over twice as long as the healer thought he'd be unconscious, and Papyrus still hasn't shown any signs of waking. The kingdom responds to their king's absence. Low level recruits start acting up, itching to advance in this uneasy moment. Projects are postponed. Monsters have started to _talk_ , to wonder—what if Papyrus does not awaken? There were plenty ambitious enough to try to fill the power vacuum. Sans knows they would all fail; the human, before they left, had ripped from them every other monster worthy of the mantle.

Sans should be out in the public, demonstrating the stability of the crown. But the rebel's words have amplified his anxiety, and Sans spends his days against Papyrus' cold, unmoving side. He likes to imagine Papyrus is getting warmer, some life seeping back into him, but perhaps it's only Sans' body heat warming the bed.

"You have to get up, Papyrus." Sans pleads. "I won't do this without you."

Insistent knocks at the door once again disturb his vigil.

"Go away," He snarls. "I don't want to eat anything."

"My queen, I have a report from the royal scientists." Comes the muffled response.

Sans stumbles out of bed, throwing on a robe for some preservation of modesty, and opens the door. Catty stands there waiting for him, ramrod straight.

"Speak."

"Its purpose appears to be exactly what the healer described—it drains all of a monster's magical energy upon contact. But, more importantly, they discovered it's powered by a crystal only found deep within Waterfall."

"…You find the supplier, you find the rest of the rebels." Sans realizes. Catty nods. "Seek out the base, but discreetly. Dress as a civilian, eager to join their cause—"

The hellhound barks, drawing Sans' attention. Papyrus is struggling to push himself upright into a sitting position. Papyrus is _awake_.

Sans scrambles over to his side, soul pounding a mile a minute. The hound licks at Papyrus' face; he gently swats it away.

"Enough, mutt."

"Papyrus!"

Sans grabs him around the chest in a tight hug, pressing his face into the fabric of his nightshirt, reveling in the pulsing beat of Papyrus' soul, the new warmth radiating from his bones.

The hound trots over to the door and nudges Catty's legs. She gets the hint, letting the dog down the stairwell and closing the door behind them, leaving the royal couple to their privacy.

"Pap, Pap," Sans murmurs. Papyrus' arms encircle him. "You're _okay_."

"Of course I am," Papyrus says, voice still rough from his long sleep. "As if some pathetic device could defeat the great King Papyrus."

Sans laughs. Just like that, all his worries drop away. That stupid monster didn't know what he was talking about. If anything, Papyrus will find a way to enhance his magic, make it even stronger, thanks to all of this.

Reluctantly, Sans disentangles himself from Papyrus. With hands shaking from excitement, he pours Papyrus water from a carafe and hands the goblet to him. Papyrus drinks deeply.

"T-The healer said you should have something to drink, and eat, when you wake up—"

And why, _why_ had he dismissed the maid that morning, he could have given Papyrus some of the food off the tray—

"Sans." Papyrus is calm as he sets the goblet aside. "Come here."

He opens his arms, and Sans curls up against his chest. Sans' hands grab Papyrus tightly, reaffirming that he's awake and warm and _here_.

"You smell awful." Papyrus remarks, absently patting his skull. "Don't tell me you've just been lazing around the whole time I've been out."

"H-Hey, give me a little credit." Sans protests, though what Papyrus said is basically true. "The guards have a lead on the remaining rebels."

"Oh?"

"And I killed the bastard who attacked you myself." He says, with some degree of personal triumph.

"Did you now?" Papyrus rumbles. "I suppose such an act deserves an appropriate reward."

Papyrus has regained enough magic to conjure a tongue. Tilting Sans' chin up, he engages him in a long, slow kiss that Sans melts into. God, he missed this. After a moment they pull apart again, faces flushed.

"Never leave me." These past days have been horrible, riddled with anxiety and fear. He doesn't ever want to imagine a life without Papyrus in it.

"Never," Papyrus promises, pulling Sans closer. "Never."


	2. The Ball

Sans fiddles with the back straps of his gown, sighing with relief as the pressure on his chest eases. He might not have flesh and muscle like the average monster, but fuck, he still needs to breathe.

"Are you ready yet?" Papyrus pushes into the dressing room, as commanding and impatient as ever.

Sans takes a moment to look him up and down, appreciative of his outfit for the evening. The black suit accentuates the sharp angles of Papyrus' body. The robe—a rich scarlet, accented with the royal insignia—draped upon his shoulders makes him look rather dashing. Just the sight of him sends a spike of lust to Sans' pelvis.

"Sans, what have I told you?" Papyrus scolds him, coming over to grab the very straps Sans was just messing with. He starts to rethread and tighten them again. "You are not to fuss with the handmaidens' work."

"Would you rather I pass out?"

Papyrus finishes fixing the straps to his satisfaction. Mercifully, they're not as tight as they were, but they're still something of a nuisance.

"Don't be so dramatic," Papyrus says. He skims a hand over Sans' dress, coming up to rest on the ruby collar. Sans swallows, a shiver of anticipation crawling up his spine.

But Papyrus' hand drops away from his neck, and he offers Sans his arm.

"Come. We're late as it is."

"Can you be late to your own party?" Sans grouses, but he does take Papyrus' offered arm.

As they stride through the halls, Sans can feel nervous anticipation bubbling up within him. The ball had been all Papyrus' idea. To demonstrate the civility and pomp of the new court. To curry favor with the old elite, still chafing at the bit all these months later under Papyrus' rule, eager to squeeze him out and put in a puppet of their own. Of course, the king could always force them to cooperate, but they'd dig in their heels, find ways to slow production and progress when the Underground needs it most. The ball is an attempt on both sides to reach an understanding they can all can agree on.

Papyrus and Sans slow to a stop as they reach the massive double doors to the ballroom. Two guards stand by at the ready. The majordomo awaits them as well, the curls of his hair elaborately coiffed.

"Ah, you're here!" He bows dutifully.

Papyrus gestures with a flick of his wrist to the guards.

"Open the doors."

They obey, pushing the doors open wide, displaying the full magnificence of the ballroom. Chandeliers of pure crystal glisten from their fixed positions in the air. A complete orchestra sits in one corner of the room, performing an ambient melody. The kitchen staff whipped up a veritable buffet, with something laid out to please any type of monster, no matter their taste. Most of the sizeable room is meant to be used for dancing, but elegant chairs have been set out here and there for those who simply wish to talk.

The room is _packed_ with monsters, the crème de la crème dressed in their evening finest. And every last one of them is staring at Sans and Papyrus.

The majordomo steps to the other side of the king and primly announces the both of them, running through all their meaningless, flouncy titles.

Sweat beads on Sans' skull as his gaze darts around the room, rapidly growing overwhelmed. There are _too many people here_.

Papyrus senses his lover's anxiety, and subtly leans closer to Sans, offering what little comfort he can considering the situation.

At last, the majordomo falls silent, and they're free to proceed. Papyrus tugs Sans forward, onto the freshly-waxed ballroom floor. The crowd moves with them like a shifting amoeba, forming into a half-circle to watch the first dance.

And now, for what Sans was dreading more than the crowds, more than the fraternizing: dancing. Sans practiced for _weeks_ for this day, but his hands still shake as they clasp Papyrus'.

The conductor taps his baton on the music stand, and the orchestra transitions into playing a stately waltz.

Papyrus, asshole that he is, dances with a fluid grace, as if he was born to do so. The hundreds of faces surrounding them don't appear to bother him at all. Sans has always envied that, his brother's ability to radiate confidence no matter the circumstances.

The style of dance requires that Sans presses close to Papyrus' chest, so his brother picks up on every one of his muffled swears.

"…fucking _shit_." Sans tops off the colorful jumble of a sentence, using 130% of his concentration to make sure he doesn't accidentally step on Papyrus' toes.

Not for the first time, Sans curses Papyrus' preference for him in dresses. The bottom frills of the dress brush against the floor, threatening to trip Sans up with every step. Sans' eyes keep flicking down to their shoes as they perform box steps, a clear giveaway to his inexperience.

The strings climb for the final notes of the piece, and Papyrus dips Sans with a flourish. Sans stares up at him, breathless and riled from the exercise.

The song trails off, and Papyrus eases Sans back up. The applause that follows is probably more polite than anything, but Sans certainly feels he's earned it. The odds couldn't have been more stacked against him, and Sans didn't falter once.

"You did well." Papyrus says, sounding a bit too surprised for Sans to enjoy the compliment.

Other couples trickle onto the ballroom floor. Papyrus' grip doesn't loosen on Sans.

"Boss?"

"You didn't think we'd be finished after just one dance, did you?"

Sans' expression betrays the fact that yes, that's _exactly_ what he thought, what did Papyrus mean that there was _more_.

Papyrus chuckles lowly, drawing Sans back into the proper starting position again as the next song begins.

"I hate you." Sans mutters sulkily, forced to keep up with Papyrus' long strides as they whirl across the ballroom.

"Really now, Sans. You've practiced for weeks. It would be a pity to waste all that time and effort on one dance."

Even though they're still surrounded by others, the music, chatter, and the dancers' footfalls do well to mask their conversation, giving them some semblance of privacy.

Sans finally stumbles in the middle of the third waltz, tripping over his own feet like a clumsy idiot. The lady behind him in the formation springs away from Sans like a hand from a hot skillet. She narrowly avoids bumping into him, barely dodges Papyrus' wrath.

Sans recovers quickly, face flaming. The dance continues after the slight hiccup, and gradually, he calms down again. Papyrus smirks at him, but refrains from commenting.

Five dances after their initial step onto the dance floor, Sans flashes Papyrus a look of pure desperation. If he doesn't pause to catch his breath and grab a drink, he's liable to just keel over right here and now.

Papyrus knows when Sans' limits have truly been reached, and takes pity on his queen. As the fifth number concludes, he leads Sans from the swirl of dancers. Clusters of monsters chat amongst themselves at the fringes of the room. Dignitaries wait with thinly-veiled impatience to speak with the king, all just as eager to broker deals with Papyrus as he is them.

Papyrus nudges Sans, nodding his head in the direction of the buffet table.

"Go on then, get yourself something to drink."

Sans doesn't need to be told twice. The crowds part as he passes, making his journey across the room rather seamless. He glances back towards Papyrus when he's halfway there; already, the king has been swarmed by monsters, his towering height the only reason Sans can still pick him out from the sea of bodies. They certainly didn't waste any time.

The ball is too hoity-toity to supply any beers. Instead, Sans has to settle for water from a dispenser. Mixed in with the chunks of ice it's got limes or some shit cut up within it, diluting the water just enough that the taste doesn't really satisfy anyone. Still, Sans is parched, and sucks down a few cups of the subpar limewater within the space of a minute.

"My queen."

Sans looks up, a bit startled to be addressed at all. He doesn't have much of a say in Papyrus' political plans, mostly because he just doesn't care to. He steps in and offers his advice on the rare occasion Papyrus asks it of him, but that's about it.

And yet, this monster is speaking to him. Sans appraises him—a seahorse monster, not hard on the eyes if one's interest lies in aquatic monsters. While his suit is pressed, his black mane is tousled, giving him a rakish quality.

"I couldn't help but admire you on the dance floor," The monster continues. His voice is higher-pitched than Sans would have imagined. "Such beauty, such elegance! It stole my breath from me."

To top off the flattery, the merhorse grabs Sans' free hand, lifting it to his mouth to reverently kiss his phalanges.

"Might you do me the honor of a dance?"

Sans tugs his hand away. The last thing he wants to do right now is dance again.

"Er—why don't we sit down and have a chat instead?"

The monster can hardly refuse the queen's request, so they move from the beverage table to a set of plush chairs.

"I don't believe I got your name," Sans says, as he takes a seat. He watches, incredulous, as the merhorse drags his chair up so he sits closer than is proper to the queen.

"Baron Aaron von Charon, at your service." He actually _winks_.

Sans snorts out a laugh at the ridiculous name. The baron is perturbed, but maintains his charming smile.

"So tell me, Lord von Charon—"

"—Just Aaron, for you."

"…What is it you do, Lord Aaron?"

He puffs up. "My family is the top supplier of fish for the royal guard. Truly, it is an honor to provide for our noble troops in any way we can."

"Is that so?" Sans wracks his brain. Could Papyrus use this chump for anything? Could the fish trade be utilized as a bargaining chip for something else?

Baron Aaron leans in closer.

"You know, my father was known for his mussels. But _I_ am known for my _muscles_."

He flexes, straining the sleeves of his suit jacket with the bulges of his biceps.

Sans can't help it—he howls with laughter, slapping the arm of the couch with his hand. Heads turn at his outburst, but Sans holds tight to his good humor, refusing to let his nerves get the better of him.

The baron's confidence is on full blast now, and he whinnies, joining in with Sans' laughter.

"So, my queen." The baron's voice drops suggestively. "What do you like to do for fun?"

Again, he winks at him. Sans is honestly amazed Aaron has lived to adulthood when he's dumb as bricks—daddy's influence must really grease the wheels for him.

Sans crosses his legs, adjusting his dress, giving the baron a slight flash of his bare leg. The monster's brown eyes darken with desire, and good god, was it really that easy? Sans hasn't even pulled the trick yet where his shoulder strap "accidentally" slips down.

"In my free time, I like to engage in certain…physical activities." Sans matches Aaron's suggestive tone. His hand rests at the edge of his chair, mere inches from Aaron's own.

"Nothing beats a solid workout! My grandfather always said…" The family saying dies in his throat.

"Yes?" Sans presses.

The baron's ears flatten to his head. Sans belatedly becomes aware of the shadow looming over him. Mouth dry, Sans cranes his head up—it's Papyrus, seething with a tangible rage, about five seconds away from dusting von Charon where he sits.

Sans is immediately placating.

"Boss, we were just—"

"The queen needs some air," Papyrus growls out.

He grabs Sans by the wrist and yanks him upright.

"Hey!"

With a look, Papyrus silences him. Keeping Sans' wrist in a near-crushing grip, he hauls him through the room. Sans' face burns with embarrassment and mortification. Papyrus isn't even trying to discrete about this. No one's foolish enough to stare at them outright, but Sans knows they're all sneaking glances at the royal couple, whispering amongst themselves.

Papyrus leads him out of the ballroom, and pushes him into the next available space—the coatroom. He shoves Sans forward into the room, and then steps inside himself, slamming the door behind him. Papyrus summons a bone construct and jams it into the door handle; they won't be disturbed.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Sans snaps.

Papyrus crowds him, forcing him up against the wall, between the racks of hung coats. He slams his hands on either side of Sans' head, pinning him in.

"Don't try to be coy, you little shit." Papyrus snarls. "You know exactly what you were doing."

"Yeah, rubbing elbows. Making connections. You know, the entire point of this ball in the first place—"

Papyrus clacks their teeth together, almost painfully. His tongue flicks out, pressing against Sans' teeth insistently. Sans parts his mouth, summoning his own tongue to tangle with Papyrus'. Papyrus kisses him hungrily, and when they part, a string of saliva still connects them like a gossamer spider's web.

Breaking eye contact with Sans' half-lidded gaze, Papyrus sinks down to his knees. With one hand he lifts the hem of Sans' dress, pushing it up past the top of his pelvis.

"I saw the way that idiot looked at you." Papyrus growls. "And I saw how you looked back."

Papyrus laps at his pubic arch, and Sans groans as his magic manifests to accommodate him.

"You're—mm—being ridiculous. I was ah-acting!"

It grows harder for Sans to stay argumentative, to even formulate a proper sentence as Papyrus continues to lick at and suck and worship the wet heat forming between his legs.

"Oh, boss, boss." Sans moans.

He takes over for Papyrus at holding the dress up and out of the way, so his lover can free his hands up to stroke and squeeze the smooth texture of his femurs.

He bucks his hips forward, needing more, but Papyrus pulls back, holding Sans' pelvis in place.

"You looked to be having a rather nice time with that buffoon. Laughing like that. _Flirting_."

"I already _told_ you, Pap, it was for you; all for you."

Sans' hips try to rock despite Papyrus' unrelenting hold.

"I don't care what another monster can give you. I don't care if they'd offer to shatter the god-damn _barrier_."

Papyrus' hand slips over his slickened pussy, massaging his clit.

"Holy shit!" Sans' hips jolt at the burst of pleasure.

"You are _mine_. Mine to touch, mine to fuck, mine to do with whatever I please. Only mine. Do you understand that?"

Papyrus kisses his folds before pushing his tongue in further, plunging inside.

"Oh, god, fuck," Sans' legs twine around the back of Papyrus' neck, squeezing him closer. His hand scrabbles for purchase on Papyrus' skull, trying to push him closer, deeper, he wants more, more, _more_ —

He orgasms with a throaty moan, cum spraying Papyrus' face, dribbling down his own legs.

Sans slumps down to the floor, legs shaking with the afterglow of his climax, his body unable to support itself. He whimpers, biting on a knuckle as Papyrus licks at the fluid on his face, cleaning himself off.

Then Papyrus grabs him by the collar, yanking him upright again.

"We're far from finished, Sans."

Papyrus unbuckles his pants, pushes down the elastic waistband of his boxer-briefs just enough to free his arousal. He palms his cock roughly until he's fully erect.

"B-Boss, hold on, wait a second."

Papyrus hooks his arms under Sans' femurs, lifting his legs off the ground, pressing Sans' back to the wall. One of his shoes slips off from the rough handling.

"Just give me a minute," Sans protests. He's still extremely sensitive down there, still coasting on the waves of his orgasmic high.

Papyrus lines himself up with Sans' entrance, but hesitates, teasing the folds with the weeping head of his dick. Sans squirms; despite his objections, he wants this desperately. Papyrus presses against him, as if about to enter, but then he reconsiders, pulling back. Sans mewls from the loss of contact, bucking forward, trying to start this himself, but Papyrus won't let him.

"Please, please, just fuck me already!"

"Who do you belong to, Sans?"

Sans clutches at the sleeves of Papyrus' dress shirt.

"You, you, you, always you—"

Papyrus enters him, and Sans shrieks with pleasure. His pace is fast and unrelenting as he plows into him. The back of Sans' head thuds against the wall with every thrust. His tongue lolls out from his mouth, drool running down his chin. Sans' soul throbs inside his ribcage like a ball of magma. Papyrus is the only one who's ever made him feel this way—desired, needed, loved.

Papyrus' pace grows frantic, his breath escaping in sharp gasps.

"Say my name, say it—"

"Pah—Pap, Papyrus, _Papyrus_ —"

Papyrus bellows as he cums, filling Sans up. Sans keeps thrusting around him, generating obscenely wet squelching sounds as their bodies smack together. He follows after Papyrus with his second orgasm of the night.

Papyrus pulls out. Some of his seed follows, adding to the mess coating Sans' legs.

This time, when Sans collapses to the floor, Papyrus lets him be, and they both take a moment to catch their breath.

Papyrus is, unsurprisingly, the first of them to recover. He wills away the sexual construct, and refastens his pants, smoothing out the creases in his suit jacket and cape. There's little Papyrus will be able to do to disguise the reek of sex, but that doesn't seem to bother him in the slightest. He wants those monsters to understand that he has claimed Sans all for himself, in every sense of the world.

"…Come 'ere a second." Sans beckons.

Papyrus crouches by him. Sans licks his thumb and swipes it across Papyrus' mandible, wiping away any last traces of Sans' cum from around his mouth.

"There you go. All set."

Papyrus grabs Sans' hand, turning his head to press a skeleton kiss to the delicate bones of his fingers.

"Don't worry so much, okay?" Sans brings Papyrus' gaze back to him. "I'm yours."

Papyrus huffs, straightening again.

"I need to get back to the ball. I was in the middle of an important conversation when you disturbed me."

"Hey, you're the one that came over to me."

Papyrus' gaze flicks over Sans, to the sticky, drying mess all over his legs and pelvis. The marks of his claim. His eyes glow with satisfaction.

"You will return to our chambers. I'll send a maid back here to clean."

"You gonna woo someone while my back is turned?" Sans teases.

Papyrus glowers. "Don't push it."

After meticulously straightening his clothes for a final time, Papyrus leaves the room.

Sans gathers himself and staggers upright. The inner layers of the dress now cling uncomfortably to his legs. He shuffles across to the door and peers out. He can hear the faint strains of orchestral music through the shut ballroom doors. Everything seems to have carried on fine.

Sans leaves the coatroom visibly, solely so the maid can tell he's left, and she can begin cleaning.

Once Sans rounds the corner of the hall he teleports back to the bedroom. With a sort of primal satisfaction, he peels off the accursed dress. He kicks off his remaining shoe and slips into the large bed, nude.

Papyrus will pitch a fit about the ruined sheets, but whatever. They smell like dog anyway; they're due for a wash.

Sated and comfortable, Sans curls up in the bed and begins to drift off. If this is the result he gets, maybe he should piss Papyrus off more often.


	3. Nightmares of the Past

The lab looms ahead in the distance, tall and imposing. The sight of it still sends a shiver trailing up his spine. Papyrus looks back at him when he stays rooted to the spot, staring up at the intimidating structure.

"Sans?"

He flushes. He's stalled Papyrus and the entourage of royal guards, and they're all staring at him expectantly.

Sans forces an apologetic smile on his face.

"S-Sorry, boss. Let's go." He starts walking again.

Papyrus frowns, but Sans knows he won't say anything when they're out in public like this. They're greeted at the entrance to the lab by Zephyr, the newly instated royal scientist. Papyrus had selected well; the eagle monster is massive, a threatening presence with his curved beak and razor sharp talons. Formidable, fearless, with a scientific mind. Far from the stubby, stuttering wimp who served as the previous royal scientist.

Alphys had been a brilliant engineer, even Sans had to admit; her improvements to the Core were enormous and unparalleled. But she could never command a room as needed, many scientists either resigning or carrying on their personal projects without approval. She was emotionally fragile, far too dependent upon Captain Undyne. And when that pillar of support crumbled….well.

Dust had been found in front of the video monitors. Three guesses who it belonged to.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person, my king."

Papyrus and Zephyr shake hands firmly. The royal scientist bows in deference to Sans as well, something Papyrus visibly appreciates.

The group is ushered inside the building. Alphys' anime memorabilia has been stripped from the space, replaced with Zephyr's preference for minimalist décor. Sans finds himself secretly missing the tacky posters of Alphys' "waifus".

"I have a few points of my speech I'd like to run by you, if it's not too much trouble." Zephyr implores Papyrus.

"Very well."

Sans tugs Papyrus' sleeve.

"I want to check on some stuff. See if, uh, any new equipment is needed."

"There is time yet before the ceremony. I see no harm in this." Papyrus glances at Zephyr.

"There are no volatile experiments going on." The royal scientist confirms. "The lab is ultimately yours, and free to use as you see fit."

Smart, strong, and totally loyal to the crown—Zephyr really is the full package. With approval from them both, Sans slips out of the conversation, and takes the elevator down to the lower level of the lab.

He steps out into the lobby, and wraps his arms around himself to suppress a shudder. Over a decade has passed since that awful time, and yet so much is still as it was. The backlights on the vending machines are still out, no one bothering to replace the burnt-out bulbs. The plastic potted fichus continues to collect dust in the corner.

Summoning his courage, Sans moves further into the lab. He sidesteps several empty dog food bowls along the way. The amalgamates, those pitiful, sad things, had been euthanized by Zephyr upon discovery.

Sans walks through the dark bowels of the lab with purpose. He knows the route by heart, even after all these years, and soon reaches his father's office. He had never felt satisfied with the setup on the first floor. It was too close to the public, and encouraged too much interaction between him and the other scientists. Down here, in the cold dimness of the lower levels, Gaster was free to work undisturbed.

Sans could teleport in, but what the hell. He bothered to make a copy of the key; he might as well use it. He lets himself into the office, and does a cursory sweep of the room. Alphys never bothered to go in here, and it doesn't seem like Zephyr has touched it either.

Sans pulls out the top desk drawer, thumbing through old and weathered files until he finds his own. He takes them out, staring at them. He should destroy them. At the very least, he should bring them home, to keep them safe from any prying eyes. But Sans can't bring himself to do either. If he destroys the files, he destroys the tangible proof of what had happened. If he brings them home, to the palace, their presence will linger in the back of his mind like an unwanted tenant until he reads them again. And, of course, he'd run the risk of Papyrus finding them. After everything he went through to keep his brother from learning about what transpired, it'd be really stupid if it all came out during one of Papyrus' rigorous cleaning sessions.

He stiffens as he feels another presence in the room.

" **Sans**."

He whirls around to see a warped, malformed creature. Its congealed bones are swathed in a robe of darkness.

Fright scrapes his soul raw. Sans' back slams against the wall, the files spilling out of his hands, scattering all over the floor.

"L-Leave me alone," He whimpers out.

" **Sans**." The creature, the thing that looks so much like Gaster, but _can't_ be him, lurches closer.

Sans flings his magic out, but it doesn't catch, as if there's nothing for it to grab on to. Any bones he summons pass harmlessly through the spectral being.

"Stay away!"

Gaster grabs his hand, and Sans can feel ichor seeping through the joints of his fingers. Gaster pins his hand to the wall, leaning over him, overwhelming him.

"S-Stop!"

Gobs of black fluid drip down, pouring down his eye socket, dripping into his soul.

"No no no _no_!" Sans shrieks, desperate to get away.

"Queen Sans!"

A frantic voice breaks him form his reverie. One of the guards is here before him, grabbing his hands to keep him from clawing at himself.

Sans lists slightly to the side to look around the guard, manically checking the room: Gaster is gone. Sans looks down at his hand. White bone, unblemished by black stains.

"Wh-What are you d-doing here?" Sans asks the guard, wincing at how feeble he sounds.

"The ceremony will be starting momentarily. I was sent to fetch you." The guard radiates concern. "Should I get King Papyrus for you?"

Sans tugs free from his hold.

"No. No, I'm f-fine."

The guard forces the skeptical look on his face to something more neutral. He offers Sans a hand up. He accepts the aid, knees weak. He shoves the documents back into the folders and stuffs them back into the desk. Once the guard is outside the door, he makes sure to lock the room up tightly behind him. He's grateful that the guard makes no further comments as they move through the lab, returning to the others.

Once by the entrance to the lab, Sans can hear the gathered monsters waiting outside, both press and interested civilians.

He sidles up to Papyrus' side, entwining their hands for some much-needed support. Papyrus can tell instantly that something is wrong, and excuses them both from the conversation, moving away to give them privacy to talk.

"I c-can't go out there." Sans hates to disappoint Papyrus like this, but he's too badly shaken. "I can't t-talk to them, I _can't_ , I need—"

"Sans." Papyrus runs a gloved hand along the queen's skull, soothingly. "Tell me what's wrong."

Sans shakes his head wordlessly.

Papyrus sighs, and Sans feels lower than dirt.

"You need to show your face today, especially since the lab is going to be under your direct supervision." Papyrus taps his foot, thinking quickly. "I can handle your speech. But you need to be at my side."

"O-Okay."

Papyrus pulls out a handkerchief, dabbing away the sweat from Sans' skull.

"We need to get out there now. But we _will_ be discussing this later."

Sans ducks his head. "Yes, b-boss."

Papyrus takes Sans' hand, tugging him back to the others.

"Are you all set?" Papyrus asks the royal scientist. Zephyr nods, and so they all step out of the lab.

A temporary stage and podium have been erected for the presentation. A hundred or so monsters are seated below, but rise as the king and queen emerge.

They all settle again once the royal couple have taken their seats on the stage. Zephyr approaches the podium first.

The royal scientist's voice is an incoherent drone in the background, as Sans focuses on keeping up a calm façade. He can feel the panic attack creeping up on him, but he knows he can't let it affect him here. Not with everyone watching like this. He'd be exposed as a weak, helpless queen, and god, Papyrus would look like a fool. He'd spurned many prestigious, powerful houses to keep Sans at his side. Sans' reputation reflects directly upon his own, and Sans refuses to blow everything over something so stupid.

Sans shivers. It couldn't have been Gaster, despite how real it had seemed. His father is long dead. It was just some specter, summoned to life by his paranoid imagination.

Right?

Papyrus' hand settles overtop Sans'. He glances over at him, flashing his lover a grateful smile. His proximity has the uncanny ability to drive away Sans' anxieties. He blocks out the world, focusing on stabilizing himself, drawing strength from Papyrus' strong and unyielding presence.

That is, until Zephyr concludes his speech, taking a seat. Papyrus gives Sans' hand a quick squeeze of farewell before he rises, making his way gracefully over to the podium. Zephyr glances at Sans is askance, confused by the change up in speaker, but he's not about to call too much attention to it.

Papyrus explains the careful selection of the new royal scientist, the broad plans for remodeling the Core, the queen's role in overseeing the entire process. Papyrus' rhetoric is smooth and calm; one would never suspect he took up the speech at the last moment.

Relief washes over Sans as Papyrus concludes his speech. The crowd disperses slowly, and Zephyr comes up to the king to exchange a few last pleasantries. Then Papyrus strides over to him, and takes Sans by the hand, pulling him up out of his seat.

"We're going on ahead," Papyrus announces quietly to the guards. "You are dismissed for the day."

They all dip their heads in acknowledgement. Papyrus leads him back into the lab, where Sans can use his power in private. His teleportation ability is not well known, and Papyrus likes to keep it that way.

"Take us home, Sans."

Sans grips Papyrus' arm tightly and pulls them both into their bedroom.

Being in familiar, safe surroundings unleashes everything Sans has restrained until now. His breathing shallows in his ribcage, and before he knows it he's outright hyperventilating. Papyrus steers him to sit down on the bed, and takes a seat beside him. Papyrus rubs circles into his heaving back; he's grown used to comforting Sans through these episodes.

"It's alright, it's okay, everything's fine…" Papyrus keeps up a steady mantra of reassuring nonsense, and slowly, slowly, Sans settles again, his breathing levelling out.

As the attack winds down, he cozies up against Papyrus' side. He's utterly drained, and the day isn't halfway done yet.

"Are you feeling better now?"

Sans nods sheepishly.

"We're taking lunch with the head of the Whimsun Clan soon. Should I cancel—"

"No," Sans interrupts. "No. I'm fine now, really."

He doesn't want to screw up Papyrus' day more than he already has.

* * *

Papyrus watches him like a hawk throughout the rest of the day. While Sans is flattered by his concern, it's wasted on him; he carries out his queenly duties throughout the rest of the day without a hitch.

It's when they're settling in to sleep for the night that his anxiety makes itself known again.

Papyrus is off in the adjoining bathroom, brushing his teeth. The hellhound is situating itself at the foot of the bed. (When they first moved here, Sans had tried shoving it off the bed every night, but the damn beast kept jumping right back up, and Sans ultimately surrendered.)

Sans scratches the dog between the ears as he eyes the bed with some measure of trepidation. He's been prone to vicious nightmares before, and he's sure tonight will be one of those nights.

He jumps as a hand lands on his shoulder, and feels foolish as he realizes it's just Papyrus.

"Try to get some sleep." He says. Papyrus waits until Sans climbs onto his side of the bed before he douses the candles.

Fear makes him restless, and Papyrus actually manages to fall asleep before him for once. Sans listens to Papyrus' breath even out into deep sleep before exhaustion at last pulls him under.

* * *

He's strapped down onto the chair. The leather restraints creak but will not snap, no matter how hard he thrashes.

There's a hiss of air as the door slides open, Gaster joining him in the room. He's carrying a jar and a spoon, innocuous on their own, but Sans is sure whatever is in the jar can't be anything good.

"Open wide for me, Sans."

He shakes his head mutely. Gaster's magic forms two violet hands, which pry his teeth apart.

"There we are. I don't understand why you must always fight me every inch of the way."

Sans can hardly speak with his mouth wedged open like this, so he settles for a heated glare.

Gaster unscrews the lid to the jar, setting it aside. He scoops out a spoonful of the substance inside, and the sight of the greyish powder has Sans beginning his struggles anew. Gaster simply summons more hands, keeping Sans' head stuck in place.

Gaster leans forward and shoves the dust through his open mouth. Sans tries to gag—it tastes like chalk and ash, it _burns_ as it goes down—but Gaster prevents him from bringing it back up. He swallows it down, and dear god, he can feel his magic digesting it, breaking it down and adding it to his energy, to who _he_ is, and he doesn't want this—

Gaster forces another mouthful down. Tears prick the corners of Sans' eye sockets.

His father tuts at his vulnerability and smacks him.

"Don't be so pathetic. There's no pain involved in this."

Gaster continues to feed him. Dust is smeared across his mouth, stray particles lodged in his teeth.

"How many monsters do you think it took to fill this whole jar?" Gaster asks, conversationally. "Fifteen? Fifty?"

He relaxes his magic on Sans' jaw enough to let him speak. But Sans won't give him the satisfaction of a response, so Gaster scrapes at the bottom of the container, presenting Sans with the last dregs of dust.

"Do you know who killed them for you? It was—"

* * *

Sans jolts awake, gasping, his bones rattling softly. It's enough to wake Papyrus, ever the light sleeper. Sans can see his red eye lights blink open, peering at him.

"Sans?" His usually-loud voice is a murmur in the night.

Sans' stomach rebels, and he teleports the few feet from the bed to the bathroom. His hands grip either side of the porcelain toilet bowl and he heaves, half-digested magic dripping out of his mouth to splash in the water. He can still taste the dust, feel its grainy texture as it was poured down his throat. A second wave of nausea rolls over him, and he hunches further over the toilet, puking miserably into the bowl.

Suddenly there's a hand on his back, and a cup of tap water being held out to him. Papyrus stares at him with full-blown worry.

"Thanks, boss." He takes slow, measured sips to wash away the acidic tinge of his vomit.

Sans knows Papyrus is just itching to demand answers, but he just can't handle anything more right now. He fixes Papyrus with his most pitiable look.

"Can we just…go back to bed, for now?"

There's a pause, and Sans thinks he might actually refuse, but instead Papyrus scoops him up in his arms, carrying him back into the bedroom. The hound was waiting at the door for them, and perks up as they enter, nosing Papyrus' leg, trying to get to Sans.

"Down, dog." Ever obedient, the hound leaves them be, and jumps back up to its spot on the bed.

Papyrus sets Sans carefully on the mattress, and even tucks the sheets back in around the both of them.

Papyrus pulls Sans close. He presses his teeth to Sans' forehead in a skeletal kiss, then tucks Sans' head under his chin, flush to his chest.

"I've got you." Papyrus rumbles, and Sans can feel the vibrations of his words from their proximity. Sans' fingers tangle in Papyrus' nightshirt. His brother's presence is warm and reassuring, enabling him to drift off once more.

* * *

The second time he's startled awake, Papyrus is pulling on his boots on a nearby chair, getting dressed for the day.

"Another nightmare?" Papyrus asks, crowding closer to him.

"I'm sorry. I'm just being stupid." Sans presses a palm to his eyes. He thought he was _past_ this by now.

Papyrus steps away, rummages through their closet, and returns with an outfit for Sans.

"Get dressed," He says, gruffly.

Sans normally has servants help him into more elaborate dresses, but today Papyrus wants him in pants and a jacket, something Sans can easily put on himself. He changes quickly, only because he doesn't want to keep Papyrus waiting.

Breakfast is held in relative silence. Sans, both exhausted from his restless night, and nauseous at the sight of food, pushes his meal around on his plate, not even attempting to eat. He'd sneak food to the hound, but he knows he'd never get away with it.

Papyrus occupies his mind with reports from his guard captain, but his gaze keeps straying to Sans, demeanor growing darker the longer Sans goes without eating.

"I'm done." Sans pushes away from the table. His food has been stirred all around the plate, but not a bit of it has gone in his mouth.

He can't do this now.

"Where are you going?" Papyrus demands.

"Need some air." Sans doesn't glance back as he leaves the dining room.

He meanders through the castle, taking random paths until he reaches the inner courtyard. The servants have tended to it well; rows upon rows of trees and flowers flourish in the enclosed space. So much of the Underground's natural beauty is trampled down or ripped apart. But this garden has been kept safe from the savage horde. Only the royal couple and the gardeners are permitted entry to it.

Sans has taken to coming here when he's feeling overwhelmed, a private, pleasant area in which for him to decompress. The smell of flowers ground him in reality; in the lab, the clinical stench of medical and cleaning supplies constantly assaulted his senses.

A cold nose nudges the back of his thigh. The hellhound has followed him out here; and so has, it seems, the beast's master. Papyrus approaches him, his arms encircling Sans from behind.

Sans leans back into him, hands coming up to gently grasp Papyrus' forearms. The hellhound bounds off to snap playfully at the butterflies.

"I'm taking you off the lab project." Papyrus says, suddenly.

"What?" Sans shakes out of Papyrus' grip, to stare at him incredulously. "You can't do that."

"You were in the lab a single day, and now you can't sleep through the night. Your duties would leave you obligated to return to the lab frequently. Clearly this was a mistake."

"It can't _be_ a mistake, Papyrus." Sans is tired, already at the edge of his temper. "You're king, you're not allowed to make mistakes like this. Putting someone else on the project would look bad, and you know it."

"Then we won't announce it publicly. But I won't have you back at the lab."

Sans' hands clench into fists. His stance is wide, defiant.

"You can't tell me what to do."

Papyrus grabs him by the front of his shirt, slamming him up against the nearest castle wall. His red eyes smolder with thinly-contained fury.

"I am your king. If I tell you to do something, you will."

"Get the fuck off of me, asshole!" Sans snarls, and kicks him in the shin.

Papyrus reflexively lets go, and Sans teleports away, falling heavily onto the mattress of their bedroom.

He stares up at the ceiling, which seems to spiral in on itself. His soul pounds in his chest. Teleportation magic saps a lot of his energy, and he's running rather low between puking up last night's dinner and then forgoing breakfast.

As his dizziness slowly abates, Sans burrows deeper into the blankets. He can smell Papyrus' lingering scent and scowls at his brother's pillow. Who the hell does he think he is? Sans remembers when he had been just a baby bones, a LV 1 monster several feet shorter than him. Sans has been there for nearly every point in Papyrus' life; he knows all about his failures and blunders, his insecurities buried deep inside. Papyrus can't pull rank on Sans, of all people.

Papyrus cannot control his life. No one will, ever again.

An indeterminable amount of time later, there's a knock at the door.

"Go away, Papyrus." He says, churlishly. His anger still simmers away inside him, hot in his gut.

But the voice that answers back is soft, feminine—a servant.

"My queen, may I have permission to enter?"

"…Sure," He grunts.

She steps inside, closing the door behind her. Sans pushes himself upright on the bed.

"The king has bid that I prepare you for his meeting with the Drake Clan head."

Sans drags a hand over his face. That's right. Papyrus has devoted the next few weeks to meetings with each clan, to assure them that their individual needs are heard. It's tedious work, but Papyrus thinks it has to be done.

"Yeah, sure."

Sans follows the servant out to the dressing room. He grimaces at the dress laid out for him, tiered black ruffles with red trim. He strips, face flushing. He's still not used to someone dressing him, to anyone besides Papyrus seeing the chips and cracks that litter his bones. But the servant is fast and efficient, helping him into the gown with practiced ease and nary a comment.

He stares at himself in the mirror. His complexion is sickly and sallow, noticeably different from the alabaster sheen it should have. The servant smoothens concealer cream over his cheekbones, disguising his poor health.

Her work finished, the servant hands Sans off to a pair of royal guards, who must have arrived while he was getting changed. They lead him through the castle, to one of the many reception rooms. It's one of the finer ones. The tapestries hung on the walls predate their push below the earth. The furniture is made of the finest wood, ornately carved. The mantelpiece above the fireplace has gilded gold figurines. Out of courtesy for their frost-inclined guest today, the fireplace is left unlit.

The head of the Drake Clan hasn't arrived yet; Papyrus is the only one in the room, aside from the guards, when Sans walks in.

Sans takes the seat beside him, and folds his arms, saying nothing. Papyrus glances at him, clearly displeased. Sans glares back at him, just barely resisting the childish urge to flip him the bird.

The minutes stretch by in agonizing silence, the only thing disturbing the quiet being Papyrus' fingers, drumming against the table.

Finally, the majordomo arrives, introducing their guest.

"The esteemed Snowy Drake, leader of the Drake Clan."

Snowy struts in, icy feathers fluffed high to display his authority. Still, he has to bow to the king and queen before he can take his seat.

Papyrus and Snowy become embroiled in a discussion of border disputes in Snowdin. Sans fidgets in his chair. The dress itches in odd places, but Sans can't scratch. He twists his hands in the folds of his dress, just waiting for it to be over.

He's never even given entrance into the conversation, Papyrus heading Snowy off every time he so much as glances in Sans' direction. This leaves Sans to stew in his boredom and irritation through the entire meeting.

"Are we going to talk about this?" Papyrus asks, once Snowy has been sent back on his way, and the guards dismissed.

Sans rises, brushing off nonexistent dirt from his dress.

"I don't think there's anything to discuss."

Papyrus grabs his wrist before he can get too far. Again, trying to control him.

"Let me go," Sans hisses, with real venom.

Papyrus hesitates, but then his grip slackens enough for Sans to yank his hand away and stalk from the room.

He refuses to join Papyrus for dinner that night, spending his time curled up in bed with a thick book on thermal energy. The dress is left inside-out on the couch, Sans changing into his far more comfortable bed wear. The hellhound keeps him company, and Sans even indulges the dog with rubs on its stomach that get its tail thumping.

Papyrus joins him in the bedroom at a quarter to eleven.

"You didn't join me this evening," Papyrus states, as he shrugs off his jacket.

Sans turns a page in his book. All the reading has given him a throbbing headache, but he'll be damned if he clues Papyrus in on that.

"I've been reading. Need to brush up on my thermodynamics to help Zephyr out with the Core revitalization."

Papyrus sighs heavily, dropping down onto the bed beside him.

"I don't want to fight you." Sans is surprised that Papyrus surrenders their battle of wills first. "I just need to know you're alright."

Papyrus is concerned. He has a right to be, Sans grudgingly admits to himself. Papyrus is so meticulous, so methodical in every aspect of his life, but when it comes to Sans, he never has answers. He never knows how to help (never knows that he _can't_ help) and it distresses him.

"I'm tired." Sans says, rather than offer any explanation.

He sets his book aside after marking his page, and lays his head against his pillow. Papyrus lingers by his side for a moment before conceding the battle, preparing himself for bed before joining Sans in sleep.

* * *

Sans pulls against the restraints, the bones of his wrists chafing from the rough handling. His body is weakened, close to starving from days without food.

Gaster enters, wheeling in a cart this time. Sans lifts his head wearily to look. There are five jars today.

"No," Sans moans, feebly.

Gaster's magic forces his mouth open wide again. He tries to close down, to bite the constructed fingers, but his magic is too strong.

"We have quite a lot to get through today, so I'm not wasting any time."

Gaster unscrews the lid on the first jar, and starts spooning mouthfuls between Sans' teeth.

Sans' eye sockets clench shut. Each lump of dust is like a jolt of energy to his system, and a part of him craves more and more, to continue to feed, to stay alive.

"I believe we weren't altering your composition enough, last time. But now your magic is almost at nothing. You're an empty vessel to be filled."

One jar down. Gaster sets it aside and opens up another.

"This doesn't bring me any pleasure, doing this to you. I hope you really believe that."

Gaster stops for a moment, studying him; there's still no rise to Sans' stats. He resumes.

"You're too weak for the world you were born into. You need this to survive."

Sans whimpers. His hunger betrays him, and he conjures a tongue, lapping greedily at the next mouthful of dust.

"Oh, goodness." His father chuckles, brushing stray crumbs from his cheek. "Don't tell me you're starting to enjoy it."

* * *

Sans twists over the side of the bed and pukes. He hasn't eaten anything recently, so all that comes out is stringy bile.

There's no soothing hand at his back. A glance at the clock on the nightstand tells him it's late morning, well past when Papyrus typically wakes up. He's alone; not even the dog is around.

Sans staggers upright, head swimming. He grabs one of his old t-shirts from under the bed, and uses it to clean up the mess. God, he's so fucking pathetic.

He turns as the door creaks open. It's Papyrus, balancing a tray of food. He's surprised to see Sans up, and sets the tray on the nightstand before crouching beside him.

Sans scrubs at the mess with renewed, embarrassed vigor.

"I'll, uh, clean it up—"

"Stop, Sans." Papyrus pries the shirt from his nerveless hands, and sets him back on the bed.

"You didn't eat a thing yesterday, and I won't let you destroy yourself like this."

Papyrus spoons up some oatmeal, holding it out to him.

"Now eat—"

"No!"

Sans smacks the spoon away. It clatters to the floor.

"Sans, you can't go on like this—Sans?"

Sans has shoved himself against the headboard, bones rattling with fright.

Papyrus grabs some fruit off the tray, offering it to him.

"Sans, please, just—"

Sans teleports, face-planting into a bed of golden flowers in the garden. Their stems snap under his weight. Sans curls in the dying flowers, clawing at the dirt beneath. Morning dew seeps into his clothes. Everything here is natural, safe. Sans takes a moment to just _breathe_.

It's not long before Papyrus finds him again, and hefts him up in his arms. Sans clutches at his brother's shirt, tucking his head into the crook of his neck.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Sans gasps out. Papyrus shushes him.

He's brought back to the bedroom, and eyes the tray warily.

"I won't make you do anything," Papyrus says, sounding worn. "But please, just. Eat _something_."

With shaking hands, Sans dumps sugar into the oatmeal, and spoons it into his mouth.

Particles of sugar lodge in his teeth.


	4. Heat (Part One)

"You're sure you don't want to come with me?" Papyrus asks, packing the last of his supplies in a suitcase and zipping it up.

"I'm good." Sans says, munching absentmindedly on some chips in bed.

Papyrus is going to Waterfall for a week-long extended stay in Temmie Village. The tems are curious monsters, that kept mostly to themselves during Asgore's reign. Papyrus sees them as potential allies, but Sans has no desire to trek through muggy marshes to court a bunch of fuzzy weirdoes.

So instead, Sans plans to take a little time for himself, to laze and snack like a total slob while Papyrus isn't there to disapprove. He's already started with this bag of chips, the dog helpfully licking up the crumbs he's spewing on the sheets.

"Try not to wreck the entire castle while I'm gone," Papyrus warns, but his voice is tinged with mirth.

"No promises."

Papyrus bends down a little, tilting Sans' chin up, engaging him in a slow, loving kiss.

They break apart, Papyrus' fingers caressing the side of Sans' skull.

"I'll be back soon."

Papyrus picks up his suitcase, and with one last glance back, slips out the door.

Sans glances down at the mutt, which is snuffling at his hands in search of more crumbs.

"Looks like it's just you and me now."

The hound's tail thumps excitedly.

* * *

Papyrus scheduled his visit to the Temmie Clan on a week Sans had off from his judicial responsibilities. The kingdom chugs along on its own well enough for the moment, allowing Papyrus to make a trip to an obscure village, while Sans gets to spend his time doing his absolute favorite hobby—absolutely nothing.

Sans and the hound settle into a routine. Sans spends a good portion of the day vegging out on the couch, and when the hellhound starts to look antsy Sans takes the dog for a walk in the garden. The dog is smart enough to know not to piss here; it does that business elsewhere. Instead, the garden is for playing. The dog fetches a tennis ball that it got from god knows where, and Sans tosses it around with his magic, watching with amusement as the dog chases it around in circles. It's something of a relief to have a week to step back from everything and just…be.

Papyrus had tried to call him the first night, but the audio was choppy, the bad reception making it difficult for them to hear each other. So they've settled for texting, but the connection is so poor that about one out of five of the texts Sans sends goes through. He gives up on sending any messages of real importance, instead texting his brother occasional emojis or stories about the dog, just to show he's still kicking.

His week alone is going fine, until one day Sans wakes up and can instantly tell that something's decidedly not right. The thick, syrupy feeling of arousal drips through him, his body warm and flushed, his mind fuzzy. He must've orgasmed several times in the night, the evidence in his sodden boxers, the sticky puddle of fluid on the sheets.

Sans reaches down, hesitantly touching himself. The press of his hand alone sends waves of pleasure wracking through his body. God, this hasn't happened in ages. He's the furthest from prepared that he could possibly be.

He rubs at himself for a moment, and then forces his hand away. Soon, he won't be able to do anything but masturbate; he needs to act while there's still a glimmer of sanity left within him.

He heaves himself out of bed, limbs sluggish and slow to respond as he drags himself to the door. The hound must've smelled him yesterday and knew something was up, because it's nowhere to be found now.

The door to the bedroom is shut, as it is every night, but now Sans slides the heavy lock in place. Short of a battering ram, nothing is getting through that door.

Sans rests his sweating skull against the wood, panting softly. He'd never forgive himself if his arousal pushed him into taking a servant or guard into his bed. Papyrus would kill the offending monster without a second thought, but. He would be magnanimous enough to forgive Sans.

Sans' hand trails against the lock, warring with himself. Papyrus would forgive him. But by betraying him like that, Sans would nurture the seeds of insecurity already planted inside his brother.

So, even though his body urges him otherwise, he makes sure the door is securely locked before staggering back into the bed.

He works his shirt up some, exposing his lower ribs and spine. His hands fumble across the bone, stroking and touching. It's a pale imitation of Papyrus' strong, warm touch. It's not enough, so Sans starts to palm the mound of magic beneath his boxers, his slick dribbling down the insides of his legs.

God, he _needs_ Papyrus. Why did this have to happen now, why couldn't he have sucked it up and gone with Papyrus—

His cell phone. Sans' gaze snaps to the nightstand, where his cell phone rests. The haze wrapped around his thoughts clears slightly. He could call Papyrus, who would rush back to take care of him.

His one hand continues to rub at his clothed arousal, while the other strains across the bed to grab the cell phone. He grasps it, but his momentary hope is squashed instantly. The phone's screen is black and unresponsive; it's out of charge.

Sans whines, and bucks faster into his hand. He lets the cell phone drop to the floor; he doesn't have nearly enough coherency any longer to scrounge around the messy bedroom in search of the charger.

Sans peels his boxers off, exposing his dripping need to the open air. He teases a finger around his folds, before slipping it inside.

"Ah, Papyrus," Sans wheezes, eyes falling shut. All he can do is hope Papyrus returns home soon.

* * *

Papyrus loathes to admit it, even within the privacy of his own mind, but he's actually having fun here. The temmies live a private life, sequestered in a cave far from the rest of Waterfall's populace.

Some would call their methods of living crude and primitive, but after days of discussion and observation, Papyrus has discovered their quirky ways of doing things are as, if not more, successful than the usual ways.

The temmies demonstrate their basket-weaving techniques, swift and efficient, and create baskets of better make than the ones he sees in the merchant stalls throughout New Home. Their clan has the unusual trait of limbs that can elongate, which they have honed their fighting skills around. Papyrus watches one of the temmies whip out their arm and snatch a fish from the river, fifteen feet away. He learns that their usage of long limbs has led them to evolve sharp vision; they're capable of seeing significantly farther than the usual monster. The strategist inside him is delighted at the idea of utilizing temmies in battle, to scout areas as sharp-eyed lookouts.

But perhaps the most useful information he learns comes about when the village elders sit him down to discuss their history. The Temmie Clan stretches back through eons of monster history. Some temmies of note served as advisors to King Asgore back when they were above the surface. Most temmies stay close to home, however, and a great strokes of genius have thus passed by unnoticed. In addition to devising cures for several allergic reactions, the temmies are on the cusp of creating a supplemental medicine for monsters who have fallen down.

"Most monsters dust those who have fallen. Free EXP. But Tem family. Tem protect Tem." One of the elders explains. Papyrus can understand that.

Unfortunately, their isolation and anti-killing policy leaves them with terribly low LV compared to other monsters. If Papyrus were to bring a temmie into his court, there's no doubt several of the unrulier monsters would try to pick them off. Papyrus already has his hands full with one low HP monster to worry about, so he reluctantly gives up the thought of bringing one of them back to the castle.

Papyrus parts ways with the Temmie Clan after setting a date for a seconds meeting later in the month. He is led by a temmie though the tall ferns and dark tunnels, back to the main road. The small monster takes a dizzying amount of twists and turns to get there; Papyrus has little hope of replicating the path and making it back to the village on his own, even if he wanted to.

As Papyrus heads to his rendezvous point, where his personal guards are waiting to escort him home, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. The temmies don't bother with Core-generated electricity, so Papyrus carefully rationed the battery charge to keep the device powered throughout the week. Now that the reception is better, he sends off a quick text to Sans to confirm that he's on his way back home.

Papyrus frowns, scrolling up to look at their previous messages. His brother's responses grew increasingly sporadic throughout the week, until he stopped responding altogether.

He _missed_ Sans. He almost pines for their Snowdin days, their simplistic nine to five weekdays. As their relationship strengthened, Sans spent less time at Grillby's, and Papyrus less time training, the pair of them sitting together to watch mindless television, or indulging in their more carnal desires.

Things are different, now—their time together needs to be planned, fit into a complex schedule. Kingship is what Papyrus had wanted, but it is not without some measure of sacrifice on his part.

The guards are in sight up ahead, and there's still no response from Sans. He tucks away his phone, irritation building in his soul.

He knows Sans would have enjoyed himself, if he'd given the village a chance. He could have persuaded Sans to accompany him, but instead he accepted his brother's request to stay home, and no doubt fill their room with crumpled snack bags and unwashed sweaty socks.

Papyrus allowed him this, so the least Sans could've done in return was respond to his messages. He resolves to have words with his brother once he reaches the castle.

The journey home is painless, and Papyrus dismisses his guards as he reaches the castle gates.

He is hardly five steps inside the castle walls when a harried-looking servant approaches him.

"King Papyrus, we're so glad you've returned. There's something wrong with the queen."

The sharp claws of fear dig into his soul. He'd assumed Sans was being his lazy, irresponsible self when he stopped answering him. Papyrus hadn't even considered the notion that something could have _happened_ to him.

Papyrus stiffens, and the servant balks under his severe gaze.

"Explain yourself."

"He shut himself in the bedchamber two days ago, and hasn't been out since." She wrings her hands. "We've left out food and drink for him, but it has remained untouched."

Papyrus pushes past her, making his way urgently through the castle, up the stairs that lead to the bedchamber. From his pocket he draws out a key; to ensure their safety, only two have ever been made, and the other is ostensibly on Sans' person.

Papyrus lets himself inside, shutting the door behind him. Sans has drawn the translucent curtains around the canopy bed, but as Papyrus comes closer he can see his brother's form shifting on the mattress.

Papyrus rips the curtain to the side.

"Sans, what's—"

Oh.

… _Oh_.

Sans ruts frantically against the edge of a pillow. He thumbs at his clit as he chews lightly at on the phalanges of his other hand. Soft whimpers of need escape his mouth. He's stripped naked, and the sheets have been soiled several times over. A sweet, heady musk pours out from him, the scent alone causing magic to pool at Papyrus' own pelvis.

Papyrus swallows, hard. Sans has entered his heat.

"Pap, Papy," Sans breathes. He crawls over to the edge of the bed, expression hungry. "I waited for you, so long. Too long."

Before Papyrus can blink, Sans unbuckles his pants, and tugs down his boxers.

"Sans!" Papyrus yelps out as Sans licks a stripe down his pubic arch, encouraging his magic to take form.

There might as well be stars in his brother's eyes as he takes Papyrus' cock in his mouth. On a usual day, Sans moves almost unbearably slow, takes his time. But with his heat coursing through him, Sans is the opposite. He bobs his head up and down Papyrus' length at a desperate pace. One of his hands comes up to work and squeeze the bottom of Papyrus' shaft, while the other continues to pleasure himself, thrusting three whole fingers in and out of his slickened pussy.

"Ah, Sans, that's so good." Papyrus encourages him. Sans can't speak, so he hums around Papyrus' cock, adding to the pleasurable stimulation.

Papyrus grips the back of Sans' skull, encouraging him to take more and more of him. It's not too long before Sans' fast and hard ministrations have Papyrus about to burst. But right as he reaches the edge of climax, Sans draws back, Papyrus' erection sliding out of his mouth with a soft pop.

Sans rubs his cheek against the tip of Papyrus' swollen erection.

"Mark me," Sans begs, breath coming quick and uneven. "Make me yours."

Sans gives his cock a few more fast pulls and Papyrus cums on Sans' face. His brother's tongue flicks out, and he licks around the corners of his mouth, swallowing down some of Papyrus' release. He gazes up at Papyrus with a glazed, adoring expression.

"I need more. Please?"

"Dear god, Sans." Heat turns his brother into such a lascivious beast.

Papyrus starts undressing. Sans is eager to help, clumsily unbuttoning his shirt as Papyrus pulls off everything else.

Papyrus climbs into the bed with his lover.

"Let me take care of you."

"Mmm, yes, Papy," Sans' hips buck at the empty air, the low timbre of Papyrus' voice enough to arouse him.

Papyrus pushes Sans down onto the bed. He presses two fingers to Sans' mouth. Sans' teeth part automatically, his tongue sucking on them, getting them nice and wet with his saliva.

"Alright, that's enough." Papyrus removes his fingers from Sans' mouth, bringing them lower, to his twitching hips. Sans hardly needs preparation, slick and open from days of using his own hands.

Papyrus plunges his fingers inside, and Sans' hips jerk up in response. His fingers curl inside his walls. Sans throws his head back, moaning with wanton abandon.

"Oh, Papy, _more_." Sans pleads. He grasps Papyrus' wrist in a trembling grip, trying to push him in harder, deeper. Papyrus rubs his fingers inside him, and it doesn't take long for Sans to orgasm, his release squirting out around Papyrus' fingers.

Sans' recovery period is a matter of minutes, and Papyrus moves on to the next stage of his plan. When both partners are not in a simultaneous heat, the experience can be difficult and draining for the one not affected. As soon as Papyrus gives in, slips his cock inside Sans, his lover won't let him stop until the heat is satisfied.

Papyrus removes his fingers from Sans' folds, and keeps his brother's gaze as he licks off his cum with slow, deliberate swipes of his tongue.

Papyrus chuckles as the simple action has Sans squirming. He leans forward, overtop of Sans, pinning him in place with his hands on either side of his brother's shoulders.

"Look at yourself, Sans." Papyrus purrs. "You've become such a little slut."

Sans' face colors, both from embarrassment and arousal.

"Sh-Shut up."

"Admit it, Sans." Papyrus shifts, pressing his knee to Sans' groin. His brother rocks against him, generating a gentle friction.

"Stop p-playing around," Sans gasps.

Papyrus presses his mouth to Sans' neck, reveling in the full body shudder that runs through him at Papyrus' warm breath blowing on his vertebrae.

"What did you imagine me doing to you, those days I was gone?"

Sans whines; his rutting against Papyrus' leg isn't enough to fully satisfy him. Papyrus is almost painfully aroused himself, but he denies them both what they want for the moment in favor of tormenting Sans.

"Describe it for me."

"I—I pictured, I, uh, y-you," Sans grasps for a scrap of higher brain function.

"Go on." Papyrus nuzzles into Sans' neck.

"You, c-coming home, and, and," Sans' fists clench and unclench in the sheets. "You push me down, and f-fuck me, faster and faster, filling me _up_ —"

The mental image alone overwhelms him, and Sans' eyes flutter as he rolls his hips, coming again.

"My my, what's this?" Papyrus pulls his knee away, to watch the juices trickle out of him. "Cuming from just the thought of me inside you. And yet you claim you're not a slut."

"S-Screw you." Sans mutters, hiding his face in the crook of his arm.

Papyrus ducks his head lower, bringing his attention back to Sans' pelvis. He caresses the outer edges of bone, coming close to his pussy but then stopping just shy of it. Sans' breath quickens as minutes pass without Papyrus continuing any further than the feather-light touches.

"Stop f-fucking around!" Sans whimpers. "Just touch me already!"

"But Sans, I _am_ touching you."

Papyrus continues to stoke the sensitive bones of his pelvis with one hand, and the other comes up to Sans' spine, blunted nails scraping lightly against the bone.

Sans wriggles at the pleasure, but lets out an agitated sigh.

"Papy, come _on_ already. I—I want you inside me, _please_."

"All in due time, Sans."

Sans' hips jolt as Papyrus leans in, tongue lapping at his swollen clit. He drags his nails harshly down Sans' spine, his other hand toying with his coccyx.

"Mmnf, yes, fuck yes! Right—ah—right there, yes—"

Sans cums once again from all the stimulation, and Papyrus swallows it down.

Sans sags back against the bed, breathing hard, face beautifully flushed. Papyrus stokes Sans' femur idly, waiting for him to recover. He licks at the cum around his teeth. His unattended erection throbs, precum soaking the tip.

He misses the devious expression that flashes across Sans' face.

Papyrus stops short as his soul is captured with blue magic. Part of him is impressed Sans can summon this magic this complex considering the state he's in. The other part of him is filled with the panicked realization that he's no longer the one in control.

"Oomph!"

Sans uses his magic to toss Papyrus onto the bed beside him. He releases his hold on Papyrus' soul as he climbs on top of him, lining himself up.

"No more games." Sans growls, and slams himself deep down onto Papyrus' cock.

"Oh, f-fuck," Papyrus stutters out. Sans is warm and wet, wrapping around him perfectly.

"Heh. S-See, Pap, isn't this so m-much better?"

They get into a steady rhythm, Papyrus canting his hips up as Sans thrusts down, taking his entire length. Sans' tongue lolls out of his mouth, drool dripping down his chin, a total slave to pleasure.

" _Hng_ , Sans, I'm close—"

"Fill me up, Papy, _please_ —"

Papyrus' orgasm rolls over him, and he cums buried inside Sans. The sensation of Papyrus' seed spilling out inside him has Sans cuming as well, his walls tightening around Papyrus, milking his cock for every last drop.

Papyrus' erection is softening, but Sans continues to slowly rock against him.

"When did your heat start?" Papyrus asks, a bit breathless. Sans' increasing rhythm is coaxing him back into hardness.

"Papy, I don't even know what day it is." Sans thrusts down on him hard, drawing a sharp moan from the both of them. "All I know is I want to keep fucking until I pass out."

But Sans meets his eyes. The series of successive orgasms has given him a scrap of rationality back, taken a bit of the edge off. His look says that if Papyrus really wants him to stop, he will. He'll let Papyrus go and deal with the remainder of the heat himself.

Papyrus answers that look by gripping Sans' hips, urging him to go faster.

There's challenge in the sharp-toothed smirk he flashes up at Sans.

"Well? What are you dawdling for?"


	5. Heat (Part Two)

Papyrus' eyes crack open. He's lying on his side, his arm slung over Sans' shoulder. His brother's mouth is slack in sleep, drool seeping onto his pillow. How lovely.

Papyrus disentangles from Sans, hissing lowly as the movement awakens numerous aches in the lower half of his body. He lost track of how many times he and Sans were both brought to orgasm, his brother's tenacity keeping them up well into the early hours of the night.

He glances down at his brother, thinking. Sans' last heat had happened years ago, when they first moved into Snowdin. Their house, though not without its flaws, was above average size, and warm enough considering the location. Papyrus had requested and obtained an advance on his wages, and used most of the gold to purchase food and other supplies. For those few short weeks, they had achieved stability and relative safety.

One day, he went to awaken Sans for their sentry shift, to find his brother's door locked. He'd pressed his skull to the door, heard his brother gasping and moaning on the other side.

Sans hadn't shared his heat with him, but that insufferable bartender had seemed rather smug for weeks after. Papyrus never knew for sure what, if anything, had transpired between them. It's entirely possible nothing happened at all, and Grillby had been trying to toy with him.

But regardless, that is in the past. Sans is here now, by his side. He feels safe and secure here, and asked Papyrus to help him through his heat.

Papyrus leans over, nudging Sans.

Rousing, Sans bats away the hand that prods at his side.

"Five more minutes, boss." His voice is raspy, hoarse from literal days spent moaning for his lover.

"Not a chance," Papyrus insists. "The sheets are positively filthy."

Unwilling to wallow in the mixture of sweat and other bodily fluids for a moment longer, Papyrus climbs out of the bed, stretching his aching limbs.

He hefts Sans up into his arms; if Papyrus doesn't carry him, he's liable to fall right back asleep again.

"Ah, shit." Sans mutters, as the jostling movement exacerbates his own soreness.

Papyrus stills. "Are you alright?"

"'m fine. Just not used to that much activity, heh."

Papyrus snorts. He nudges open the bathroom door with his foot, and transfers all of Sans' weight to one arm so he can run the bathwater.

The tub, built to fit both Asgore and Toriel, is comically large for the two of them. It's more of a big Jacuzzi than a bathtub. Papyrus had a simple, smaller shower installed when they first moved in, but this is one of the rare instances in which he opts for the tub instead.

Papyrus turns another tap, and a soap with a rosy smell floods out, churning and mixing with the water.

When the tub is filled to his satisfaction, Papyrus turns off the taps, dipping a finger in the water to gauge the temperature. Papyrus typically prefers to take scalding hot showers, but the extreme heat would be murder on their sensitive bones. So he makes sure to keep the temperature lower than usual, nearly lukewarm.

He sets Sans down inside the tub. His brother lets out a pleased moan as the warmth of the water surrounds him. Papyrus climbs in after him, and grabs two loofahs resting on the rim of the tub. He tosses one over to Sans, and it bounces lightly off of his head.

"Owch," Sans gripes.

"Make sure to clean yourself properly."

Papyrus is already lathering up his own sponge. But Sans just bats his loofah around in the water, absentmindedly scooping up some of the bubbles and stacking them on top of it.

"I mean it, Sans."

"Yeah yeah, I heard ya, boss."

Papyrus snickers.

"What's so funny?" Sans asks, warily.

"Back to calling me "boss" now, are you?" Papyrus leans over him. "What happened to "Papy"?"

Sans' face goes red. He makes a half-hearted attempt to shove Papyrus away.

"Shut up." He sinks down in the bathwater, trying to hide his face in the bubbly foam. He picks up the loofah, and brushes it lightly against his bones.

Papyrus shifts closer towards him, pulling Sans into his lap, back flush against his chest.

"Boss?" Sans cranes his head, staring up at Papyrus questioningly.

"You'll never get yourself clean with such a sloppy technique."

Papyrus scrubs Sans down in earnest. Dirt and grime flake away in addition to the layers of bodily fluids. Sans sighs with contentment as Papyrus thoroughly cleans both Sans' limbs and his own. The layer of bubbles slowly thins out as time trickles by.

"Don't fall asleep." Sans is limp and pliant against him, letting Papyrus do all the work, as usual.

"I'm not. Just restin' my eyes."

Sans startles, eyes snapping open as Papyrus presses the sponge to the curve of his iliac crest.

"I can't _not_ clean the area." Papyrus says. Of all the places on Sans' body, his pelvis needs the most attention.

"I know, it's just…"

Papyrus swipes the loofah across his pelvis. Sans stifles a moan with his hand; Papyrus can practically feel the heat of his blush.

"Can't believe I'm getting worked up over a fucking sponge." Sans mutters.

Papyrus laughs lowly, tugging the loofah through his pelvic cavity, to brush against his coccyx. Sans squirms in his grip.

"I'm almost finished," Papyrus promises, pushing the sponge around every dip and nook of his pelvis, until any residue of their activities has been thoroughly removed.

Sans twists around in Papyrus' hold to meet his gaze, red tongue slip out between serrated teeth. Papyrus answers his unasked question by meeting him in a kiss. In a direct parallel to their frantic, greedy pace the night before, the kiss is gentle, but just as loving.

Papyrus pulls away before it can escalate any further; they'd come into the bathroom to get _clean_ , after all.

He finishes sponging down the both of them, and pulls the plug at the bottom of the tub, water and soap swirling down the drain. Papyrus grabs two fluffy white towels, tossing one to Sans, and they both dry themselves off.

They have to pick their way across the bedroom floor to reach the closet. Papyrus hadn't had the chance earlier to really take in the mess Sans made. Crumpled snack bags are scattered about, their crumbs spilling out onto the carpet. Sans' outfits are flung haphazardly here and there across the room. The wastebasket is overflowing with balled-up papers, scientific designs that Sans must've gotten frustrated with. All in all, a total mess.

"I was gonna clean it," Sans says, defensive, reading the disgust plain on Papyrus' face. "Really. But then, well. You know."

"What is it that compels you to generate so much garbage?" Papyrus wonders. Sans shrugs.

They dress for the day, in softer, more comfortable outfits than usual.

"Well, you're not weaseling your way out of cleaning it," Papyrus declares, as he straightens the hems of his turtleneck.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Papyrus is a mite peckish, but Sans is undoubtedly hungry, so once they've dressed, they make their way down to the dining room. On the way, Papyrus catches the attention of the first maid he encounters, and instructs her to strip the bedsheets of the royal chamber. Even Sans has the decency to blush at what awaits the hapless maid when she enters the room.

Their hot bath has eased most of their soreness away, but neither are fully recovered yet. Papyrus takes his seat at the head of the table with care, and Sans settles gingerly into his own chair to his right. The cooks are quick to whip up a veritable brunch for them.

The long days of his heat have left Sans ravenous; the servants have hardly finished setting the plates of food on the table before he is digging into his meal with gusto.

Summoned by the scent of food, the hellhound trots in. It perks up at the sight of its returned master, and bolts over, licking excitedly at Papyrus' hand. He greets it with a few pats on the head.

Upon seeing the hound, one of the servants disappears into the kitchen to fetch its usual meal. The hound curls at Papyrus' feet as it feasts.

As Papyrus starts to eat himself, he's pleased to see Sans continuing to eat so well. Getting his brother to eat when he's not in the mood is an impossible uphill battle, and it happens far too frequently for his comfort. Sans' magic is strong, but his body is frail; he needs all the extra strength he can get.

After a leisurely meal, Papyrus and Sans part ways for the moment. There's still time enough in the day to get some work completed. For Sans, that means picking up the mess he made of the bedroom. For Papyrus, that means a trip to the library.

The castle library is massive. Rows upon rows of bookshelves fill the room, each with stacks of leather-bound tomes on every subject imaginable. Papyrus had been raised on propagandist schooling, taught a diluted and twisted version of history. But some of the books housed here date back centuries; so many are first editions, diaries, first-hand accounts. Papyrus has made it a habit to come here and study from those long gone, to learn from their mistakes.

Papyrus takes a seat at one of the long reading tables. He'd left several books out the last time he was here. He picks one from the pile; a bulky text on Waterfall horticulture. As dry as a text can be, but there's no telling when such mundane facts might come in handy. He spent his childhood and adolescence learning how to be a warrior, but now he must be a king.

Papyrus picks up his reading glasses. They've been designed with his lack of physical ears in mind, gummy magic keeping them stuck snug to his skull. He turns the book open to his bookmarked page, and begins to read.

He's just begun a new chapter exploring theories on echo flowers when he's suddenly uncomfortable, warmth prickling across his bones. He rolls up the sleeves of his turtleneck, which is now sweltering.

"Fuck," He swears, noticing the telltale glow brightening beneath his pants.

Sans' heat must have triggered his own. Papyrus grips his knees tightly, forcing his breath to remain level.

He doesn't have _time_ for this. Sans' heat coincided quite fortuitously with their week-long break. But now the brief respite is at an end, and he needs to work. He has no time to indulge in his carnal desires.

Papyrus can't tell Sans. His lazy brother will encourage him to satisfy the heat instead of fulfilling his responsibilities. If Sans knew about this, he wouldn't let Papyrus leave the bed until his heat was thoroughly taken care of, even though that could take _days_.

No, it's much better for Papyrus to handle this all himself. He casts a furtive glance around the library. Guards are posted outside the door, but he's alone in the expansive room. Emboldened by his privacy, Papyrus shakily unzips his pants, pulling his growing erection into the open air.

He bends the upper half of his body over the desk, gripping the wooden surface for support as his other hand strokes in a steady rhythm. Precum slickens his hand. His heat has him rock hard in a matter of minutes.

" _Fuck_ ," He pants, as he gets close to the edge. His eye sockets squeeze shut, and he pictures Sans kneeling before him, swirling his tongue around Papyrus' cock, then drawing back to moan out his name, begging to be fucked by _Papy_.

Papyrus climaxes with a stifled groan.

He wipes off his hand on a tissue, before stooping down to clean off the mess he made on the carpet before it sets. The heat ebbs for the moment, his body settling down again. He discards the evidence of his momentary weakness, and returns to his reading. He'll get through this.

* * *

Sans smothers a yawn with the back of his hand as the servant helps him into his outfit for the day.

"How are you this morning, my queen?" The servant's voice is cheery in spite of the early hour.

"Good enough. How's…Todd?"

They've lived in the castle long enough now that he's come to recognize most of the servants. Sans used to be incredibly uncomfortable about being dressed by another, and several of the maids, sensing his anxiety, would fill the moment with idle chatter about their lives. Sans struggles to recall this particular servant's name—Maria, maybe?—but he does remember that she has a kid in New Home.

"Oh, just splendid!" She enthuses. "His magic scores placed him in the top fifteen of his class. With a bit more practice, he might even be considered by the guard."

"The royal guard, huh?"

Being in the guard used to have a bit more weight to it, back when Undyne was still around. Papyrus has been making strides to rebuild it to its former glory, but like most everything, progress comes at a snail's pace.

Both jump as the door to the dressing room suddenly slams open. Papyrus steps inside, a dark aura about him.

"Jesus, boss. Where's the fire?"

Sans tries for levity, to put his brother at ease. He can't think of anything that would have Papyrus so wound up.

"Leave." Papyrus commands coldly, glaring down at the servant. She pales, and makes a hasty departure.

"What did you do that for?" Sans gestures as he speaks, and the straps of the dress slip down his arms. "She didn't finish."

Papyrus says nothing, staring through him, almost dazed.

"Boss?"

Sans steps down off the stool, coming over to touch Papyrus' arm. His brother flinches, Sans' touch seeming to shock him back into awareness.

"Turn around." Papyrus whispers out.

Sans does so. After a moment, Papyrus' hands come up, to finish the work the servant left incomplete. Sans can feel Papyrus' hands tremble as he laces up the dress.

"Are you feeling okay?" Sans asks.

"Yes," Papyrus' voice is hoarse, strained. He clears his throat, and when he speaks again, it is with his usual strength. "I'm fine."

Sans' crown rests on a nearby chair. Papyrus picks it up, and lowers it onto Sans' skull. He traces the ornately-carved crown with his hand, phalanges circling the gems encrusted on the golden metal.

"My queen." Sans shudders as Papyrus' voice drops low, husky.

Papyrus takes his arm, pressing him rather close. Sans marvels over his odd behavior as they make their way through the castle. Maybe Papyrus is still feeling guilt over being absent for the onset of Sans' heat. He couldn't have known it was coming, but it's certainly possible that Papyrus is blaming himself for it nonetheless. He'll need to sit down with Papyrus and assure him he'd done nothing wrong, and that Sans is fine now; he doesn't need to worry so much, doesn't need to work himself up into such a state.

But first they have to get through the day.

Papyrus and Sans enter the throne room. Toriel's throne has been brought out of storage to sit beside Asgore's. The thrones are massive, but Papyrus wouldn't even consider swapping them out for ones more tailored to their height. Asgore's black throne has become a symbol of the crown almost as much as the angel's sigil. To compensate, Papyrus wears tall boots, and a sweeping cape that adds bulk to his frame.

They settle into their thrones. Papyrus picks up the red trident of the king, laying it across his lap, holding it loosely with one hand. Sans frowns as he notices Papyrus' leg bouncing restlessly.

Papyrus gestures to the guards by the front double doors. One of the guards disappears into the hall, and returns with the first citizen of the day, a timid bunny monster.

Issues of major importance, such as construction and trade agreements, are handled in conference rooms filled with politicians and so-called experts on whatever the issue at hand is. But Papyrus also holds occasional sessions where the common folk can come to him with their individual complaints or requests.

The bunny monster kneels before them, and humbly requests aid for an orphanage. Sans almost laughs aloud at the exorbitantly high amount of funds requested.

But Papyrus seems to feel differently.

"So it shall be."

The bunny looks up at the king, eyes wide with surprise. She'd expected to barter, not immediately get what she asked for.

Not questioning her good fortune, the bunny monster darts from the room before Papyrus can change his mind. A guard escorts her to a side room, to fill out forms and give her the appropriate amount of gold.

Sans gapes at Papyrus. What happened to his penny-pinching brother, who scrimps and saves down to the last coin?

"You know there's no way that's all going to the kids, right?"

Papyrus grunts, and waves the next monster in.

Sans watches, quietly mystified, as Papyrus bulldozes on with this new method of his. Monsters either get everything requested, or are flatly denied. There's no middle ground, no haggling. It's as if Papyrus is trying to get through the process as quickly as possible, but they don't have anything else scheduled for the day. So what's his hurry?

"Denied," Papyrus says, to the genuflecting lizard monster at his feet. She requested additional food rations for her and her family, but it's clear that she and her husband squandered what little they'd had. The king intended to correct injustices with these meetings, not award stupidity.

But the lizard doesn't take no for an answer.

"Please, I beg you to reconsider!"

Guards approach to forcibly remove her, when she surges forwards, to kiss at Sans' feet. He draws back.

"I beg you my queen, please save my babies—"

The monster's soul is turned blue, and Papyrus rips her away from Sans, slamming her down hard on the floor. Papyrus stabs his trident down into the ground, two of the prongs on either side of the monster's neck, mere centimeters away from skewering her.

"How _dare_ you presume to touch what isn't yours." Papyrus snarls.

Sans jumps up, alarmed at the rush of killer intent.

"Whoa, Papyrus, it's alright—"

Papyrus barrels on. "Maybe I should slice off those roving hands of yours, just to be sure."

He summons a sharpened bone attack, and the lizard thrashes, frantically grasping at the trident, trying and failing to tug it free from the ground.

"No, please! I'm sorry, my king, I'm so sorry," She wails, soiling herself.

"Papyrus, _stop_!"

Sans puts himself between the two of them, forcing Papyrus to look at him.

"This isn't like you."

The wildness in Papyrus' eyes slowly ebbs. He dissipates his magic, and pulls the trident free. The lizard cringes away from him, expecting further punishment, but none comes. The guards, who had hesitated on the periphery when Papyrus went on the attack, step forward now, pulling the trembling monster out of the room before she really gets dusted.

Sans reaches out towards Papyrus, but his lover backs away from him, and sets the trident to rest against the side of his throne.

"Papyrus?"

"I have things to attend to. Don't wait up for me tonight." Papyrus' tone is clipped.

Before Sans can get a word in edgewise, Papyrus storms off to elsewhere in the castle. The guards step outside, to inform the remaining citizens that the session has drawn to a close. Alone, Sans is left to wonder what the hell just happened.

* * *

Sans is awoken in the middle of the night. He isn't sure by what, but then he feels the mattress dipping; Papyrus must have finally cooled down and come to join him in bed.

Sans is curled on his side, facing the nightstand. He's about to roll over and engage his lover in conversation when he hears Papyrus' breath hitch, and a pleasant, musky scent drifts over. Sans freezes.

"Sans," Papyrus sighs, quietly.

Sans hears fabric shift, and then the sound of a hand on something distinctly wet. Papyrus' breathing picks up, and he even lets slip a thready moan.

Oh, _fuck_. Sans' face heats up. Papyrus is jerking off right next to him.

The pheromones pouring off Papyrus in waves make it painfully clear what's going on. Sans could smack himself for being such an absolute moron for not realizing it sooner. Papyrus has gone into his own heat, in response to Sans'. But for some dumb reason that only Papyrus could rationalize, he was trying to suppress it. It certainly explains Papyrus' oddly possessive behavior over the past few days.

Sans' pelvis tingles with his own sparking arousal, in response to the obscene sounds of Papyrus' masturbation. Papyrus has never gone into heat before, at least not to Sans' knowledge. His dumbass lover probably thought he could ignore his heat if he just tried hard enough. But it's a biological, innate need that needs to be fulfilled.

He should pretend to wake up, and attend to Papyrus' obvious need.

…Or should he?

Papyrus had been such a miserable tease during Sans' heat; the vengeful side of him declares that Papyrus deserves the same treatment.

Papyrus chokes off a too-loud moan. Sans can feel his eyes boring into his back, trying to gauge his alertness. Sans continues to feign sleep convincingly enough, so Papyrus begins to stroke himself once more.

"Hah…mmm…Sans…." Papyrus whimpers into his pillow.

It takes all of Sans' resolve to ignore him. The bed creaks as Papyrus rocks on it, until finally he orgasms, some flecks of his fluid even hitting the small of Sans' back.

Papyrus' breathing slows, and the musk of his heat recedes some, pulled back and repressed by Papyrus' ironclad will. It'd be admirable if it wasn't so foolhardy.

There's more swishing of fabric, and then a gentle swipe of a cloth against Sans' back, removing any trace of evidence.

With the mess taken care of, Papyrus settles in to actually sleep. He doesn't pull Sans close to his chest as he normally does, and Sans finds himself missing his warm, comforting hold. His brother must be wary of getting too close and tipping Sans off about his little problem.

Although Papyrus soon drops off into slumber, Sans is restless, head abuzz with plans for his petty revenge.

In a matter of hours, Papyrus is up again. Sans opens his eyes a crack, and watches his brother get dressed and prepared for the day before slipping out of the room.

After about an hour later, Sans rolls out of bed to put his plan into action. He digs into the very back of their closet, where their old Snowdin outfits are stashed.

Sans slips into a ratty pair of shorts, and a loose tank top that exposes far too much of his ribs to be considered decent. Papyrus has kept him in long, ankle-length gowns since their royal upgrade. He'll be completely blindsided by Sans' outfit, even though he wore much of the same sort back in Snowdin.

Sans checks himself over in front of a full length mirror, and grins with satisfaction.

He's ready. Now all that's left is to locate Papyrus.

* * *

Sans ultimately finds him in the library. He looks like he's earnestly trying to read, but the flush to his face indicates that his heat has been something of a hindrance.

"Morning, boss." Sans announces his presence, making his way over to Papyrus.

"Sans, I don't have time for…" Papyrus' words catch in his throat as he takes in Sans' outfit. "What are you _wearing_?"

"Oh, this?" Sans picks at one of the straps of the tank top. "It was kind of warm this morning, don't you think?"

Papyrus is shaking with want, but jerks his gaze away to stare down at whatever musty old journal he was reading.

"I have work to do."

"Come on, boss." Sans cajoles. "You don't have to hole up in here. Let's go grab breakfast or something."

Sans stretches, and his shirt lifts up, baring the lower half of his spine.

He smirks as Papyrus' control finally snaps. He pins Sans against the bookshelf, capturing Sans' mouth in a hungry kiss. His hands rove Sans' body, stroking every inch of bone he can get his hands on.

His reading glasses are knocked askew, and Sans helpfully plucks them off, tossing them out of the way.

"Mm, Pap," Sans keens as Papyrus grinds their pelvis' together. His plans to tease Papyrus had been a bit more elaborate than just his revealing clothing, but thoughts of anything else besides the skeleton in front of him soon evaporate in his mind.

Sans' hands grip the shelves for support as Papyrus' swollen erection presses against him. His own magic jumps to respond, and he forms an entrance for Papyrus, which rapidly grows wet with want.

"S-Shit. Shouldn't we take this somewhere more, uh, private?"

One of the straps of his tank top has slipped to the side, exposing his collarbone.

Papyrus bites down on the slender bone, marking him. Sans flinches as pain and pleasure mingle together in his body.

"Mine," Papyrus growls, teeth red with marrow.

He reaches down, yanking Sans' shorts off to tangle by his ankles. Sans hadn't bothered with underwear, knowing where his teasing would lead.

"Augh!" Sans tries to stifle his cries. Papyrus is rougher than usual as he enters him, and with little preparation. Still, there's something so satisfying in watching Papyrus devolve into something less than perfect and controlled, succumbing to his animalistic desires.

Papyrus plunges into him. His pace is slow, but he thrusts deeply, all the way to the hilt, stretching Sans' walls to the limit.

Sans' hands, slick with sweat, lose their grasp on the shelves. Papyrus reaches forward and squeezes his wrists in a powerful grip, keeping them pinned up.

Through his haze of pleasure, Sans is struck by the sight of Papyrus' soul. It's still hidden beneath his shirt, behind his ribcage, but it shines bright enough that Sans can still see the crimson glow. His own soul pulses madly in his chest, longing to join and meld with his lover's.

"Pah—Pap, please." It's hard for him to articulate his need, and he tries to squirm up to reach Papyrus. His brother somehow understands, and crushes their chests together. Their souls strain, close but not yet touching.

Papyrus' pace grows erratic, picking up speed as he builds closer to his climax.

Papyrus presses his tongue to Sans' teeth, requesting entrance. Sans parts his mouth, their tongues tangling together.

Sans clamps tight around Papyrus, as he's brought to orgasm. Sans gives a muffled moan as Papyrus stops thrusting and impales him, his cum shooting into Sans in a hot gush of magic.

Papyrus pulls out, but his cock is still stiff, his heat not even close to being fulfilled yet.

Papyrus grips Sans by his collar, tugging him to the floor. Sans lets himself be manhandled, limbs like jelly as Papyrus positions him on all fours, like a dog.

Papyrus enters him again, displacing some of his spent seed as he does. Most of it remains inside Sans, swilling around.

"Fuck _yes_ ," Sans pants.

Papyrus only grunts and growls, well past the point of being able to form words. Papyrus' fingers dig and scrape at Sans' back, leaving faint marks on the bone.

Their pelvis' click and knock together as Papyrus thrusts into him relentlessly. Sans' face is pressed against the books, his saliva dripping down and puddling onto the shelf.

Papyrus's hands wander down to grip at Sans' pelvis, pushing himself deep inside Sans as his second orgasm rips through him.

"Oh, oh my god," Sans feels so goddamn _full_ , stuffed with his lover's release. His body has started to distend around all of the liquid stopped up inside of it. He squirms. "Papy, please."

Papyrus pulls out. Sans sighs with relief, spreading his legs wide as Papyrus' seed spills out of him in a steady stream.

Papyrus' limbs rattle with lust. He's still very much in the throes of his heat, but Sans is physically spent for the moment. It's time to try something else.

Sans pushes himself upright, cum still leaking out of his pussy. He reaches under Papyrus' shirt, freeing his soul from its prison. It's slick, dripping with excess magic. Sans can feel the faint throb of Papyrus' desire, the physical contact with his soul enough to broadcast his emotions.

Sans' tongue slurps at the soul. Papyrus shudders, and Sans knows he's feeling every swipe of his tongue across his whole body.

Sans' gaze goes half-lidded as Papyrus wraps a hand around his erection, pumping in time with Sans' ministrations.

He dips Papyrus' soul into his mouth, suckling up the sweet magic, tongue pushing against the squishy texture of his soul.

Papyrus' gaze never strays from Sans, and he can feel the heat and intensity of his desire.

But then Sans pulls back, removes the soul from his mouth. Papyrus emits a frustrated groan.

"You see how good this is now, don't you, Papyrus?" Sans massages his lover's soul with slow circles, enough to keep Papyrus excited, but not enough to satisfy. "I just want to make you feel good, so you tell me when this happens again, alright?"

Papyrus moans brokenly as Sans' thumb presses hard into his soul.

"I mean it, Pap. Do you understand me?"

Papyrus nods desperately.

"Good."

Sans wedges Papyrus' soul between his teeth and bites down.

Papyrus' hips snap forward, his release shooting out. Magic bursts from his soul as well, and Sans swallows it down.

Limbs weak, Papyrus pitches forward. Sans catches him, cradling him close.

Papyrus' soul is cooling rapidly, and Sans returns it to his chest, where it belongs.

They hold each other close, for the moment sated and content.


End file.
